The Doll Maker
by Of Sun and Rain
Summary: In his first case with the Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes was too late to catch the Doll Maker, the madman changing children into dolls, and instead only able to save one little girl. 12 years later, that little girl came back, and so did the monster. As Sherlock and John struggle to finish the madman off, they must make a choice: the girl or the Doll Maker.
1. Chapter 1: The Case of the Doll Maker

"It's the same as all the others," Detective Inspector Maynard told Sherlock as they walked through the drizzling rain into the bustling house "parents moved to the living room after being shot and the child missing. The neighbor heard gunshots and called the police after threatening the kidnapper with calling us. Claimed he saw a man run out the back door. Forensics is testing everything in the house for fingerprints or contamination, but—"

"There's no need," Sherlock grunted as he pushed his way through the Forensics team examining the entrance hall. "He wears gloves. He always has. If anything, look for footprints. Except your team has ruined any chance of finding them by drudging their wet shoes across this wooden floor. Congratulations, evidence ruined. Does Forensics always try to destroy the evidence before they analyze it?"

"Sherlock," Maynard admonished, "you are a guest at this crime scene. You will show my Forensics team, and every other member of my staff, respect. This is your first case with the Scotland Yard; I recommend you at least try to cooperate, or it may be your last."

"Ha, I doubt that," Sherlock whispered under his breath as he entered the living room. Although he was only twenty, he had finally convinced Detective Inspector Maynard to let him act as the "consulting" agent. It wasn't that Maynard had ever doubted him (he knew Holmes was a genius the moment he told him his wife was cheating on him; and was right), but Scotland Yard had never had such a high-publicity case that was so hopelessly above their heads. In short, they were desperate.

Slipping on a pair of gloves, Sherlock noticed the lack of blood on the floor; all of it had pooled on the sofa itself. The heavy crimson color was already beginning to darken into the brown stain against the pale fabric, something he had only seen through pictures. It was exhilarating, the mystery and the death surrounding him. It was all a puzzle; a game he played against the killer. There had to be something connecting this family murder and the recent murder/kidnapping cases all across the UK. He stared at the two bodies strewn on top of the sofa and began to analyze.

_First the man: business card in his front left shirt pocket says he is an insurance agent. Use of the left shirt pocket and the right pants pocket shown through greater wear of the fabric: right-handed. Nails bitten and cuticles picked at: stress, but from what? Not stress; other symptoms would have shown. In the moment adrenaline: most likely gambling. Only twenty-seven, but has wrinkles around the eyes: card player, poker. Judging by fresh state of picked skin around the nails: losing streak. Five one-hundred pound slips in his wallet: lost about 10,000 pounds in the past two months, has yet to tell wife. _

_Woman: Wallet in her back pants pocket also filled with 500 pounds: knows about husband's addiction. Tear-stains around eyes: contemplating leaving, but only threatens. Outside of obvious sentiment and obligation to child, she has no other options as she is a housewife judging by the rough state of her hands. Last thing she did was wash dishes: dish soap dried out her hands; proves heavy obligation to house, as the dishes were done around 4:00 pm, too early for any working woman. Long dark strands of hair along her upper thighs: five or six year old daughter. Strand caught in fingers: holding the daughter as the kidnapper entered. Neither of these two have any significance in this: where was the girl? _

"The husband is a gambler, and the wife is a regular housewife," Sherlock stated abruptly to Maynard. "The kidnapper is male, late twenties-early thirties, at least 200 lbs. and used to lifting heavy loads."

Maynard started to interrupt, but Sherlock interrupted the interruption: "He had to be strong enough to pick up a 180 lbs. man and carry him down the stairs. He had to have enough stamina to pick up the wife as well. They were shot upstairs, yet he carried, not dragged but carried, them down the stairs over his shoulder, judging by the expansion of the blood stain on their shirts but not on the sofa and the fact that there is no blood anywhere else but on their bedroom wall. Their placement on the sofa inclined towards each other shows a psychological issue from parenting in the killer and the need to create a sense of family. But none of that matters; where is the girl?"

"What?" Maynard asked after a pause. Sherlock made complete sense, but he needed a second to comprehend it all. "What are you talking about? She can't be here. He took her, just like the rest of them."

"Are you and your team really that blind?" Sherlock scoffed, before crossing his arms. "You there," he called out to one of the inspectors behind Maynard, "tell me the facts one more time."

"Uh, um," the man stuttered. This was his first case as the Assistant Detective Inspector, and he himself was puzzled by the strange man Maynard had invited out of the blue to join the Doll Maker case. He had no idea what credentials or capabilities this man had, but everything he said was so eerily logical that he could not help but feel intimidated. If he weren't such an arse about everything, he would have easily respected Sherlock.

"Go ahead Lestrade," Maynard coaxed, "Sherlock Holmes is here with my approval. You can tell him everything."

"The couple was killed with identical gunshots to the abdomen; both died of blood loss. Forensics have yet to trace potential gun-matches for the bullet. There are blood splatters in the bedrooms above that match the gun shots, placing the victims in two separate rooms when they died. They were brought down here and left. There is no evidence as to where the little girl is; we've searched the entire house, and she's missing."

"Go on," Sherlock spoke as he saw the miserable look on Lestrade's face. "Remind us how this kidnapper works." Lestrade could only stare back in horror; Sherlock had to know the fate of those children, yet he wanted them spoken aloud. The room had grown silent; everyone was equally distraught by the serial kidnappings that followed the murders.

"The children," Lestrade spoke quietly, "are kidnapped after their parents are shot in the abdomen. This is a serial kidnapper. He takes the children, and they go missing for two weeks. After two weeks, they reappear in public venues dressed up as characters from fairytales. So far, we have found Cinderella, Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, Little Bo Peep, the Pied Piper, and five others. We have them by Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the local parks, one in Scotland, two in Wales. They are staged there by the kidnapper, their bodies petrified by some sort of chemical substance that serves to freeze the muscles and tissues in the bodies. In short, they are dead. They're placed about like, like"

"Like dolls," Sherlock finished. The house was absolutely silent as the investigating team listened, intrigued by what he was about to offer. "But there are no scars on the children's bodies. No scratches or damages. The kidnapper needs the child to leave willingly with him; if they fight, they're more likely to hurt themselves. If he drugs them, there's the chance that they slide around and get scrapes. No, they need to consciously leave with him. The kidnapper is obsessed with his 'Fairytale' Collection; he will stop at nothing to complete his set. But he's also a perfectionist: the detail he puts into the murder of the parents alone is genius. What he does, he considers art. He needs the children in perfect condition. So where is the little girl?"

The investigative team stared straight at him. "How stupid can you all be?" Sherlock taunted, "How stupid can you all be? The neighbor saw the kidnapper leave the house, but he didn't see a little girl with him. The kidnapper had already gone through the murder ritual: he had already killed the parents and staged their bodies. He wouldn't just leave the girl unless he intended to come back for her." Sherlock began to pace up and down the living room, his eyes tracing the wooden panels on the floor.

"If she were willing to leave, he would have just walked out with her. The neighbor would have seen her then. But, no," Sherlock lifted his head up, his eyes widening as a smile crept across his lips, "oh, how did I miss that?"

"What?" Maynard asked.

Sherlock gave a laugh. "You all missed the one thing staring at you in the face," he called out to the Forensics team. "The footprints; his footprints are smudged. It's slight, so the weight couldn't have been that much. He dragged the little girl across the floor behind him, smudging his own footprints as he went. She fought back. She was fighting back, and he couldn't just grab her. How far could she get until the kidnapper simply ran out of time?" Following the smudges, Sherlock traced them down the entrance hall to a small closet. Opening the door slowly, there was nothing but coats on the hangers. And a shelf above the hangers, covered by a strange white tarp.

"Strange how we miss the most obvious of things," he said as pulled the cloth off the shelf, revealing the little girl. Her dark hair framed her face as she lay on her sides, blue eyes piercing into Sherlock's. Her breathing was faint, as if she were afraid to make a sound; they could barely see her chest move under the white nightgown she wore. "The most obvious of things," he repeated

Maynard reached out to pull the girl down, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "Don't."

"Why?" Lestrade demanded. "We just found her; she needs to go to a hospital, she needs a doctor—"

"There's a reason why she's not moving. Hasn't it occurred to you that a normal five year old girl would have cried out by now, or that any captive would have tried to escape? Touch her now and she dies."

"What in God's name are you talking about, Holmes?" Maynard demanded.

"Call bomb squad, now" Sherlock countermanded, as he reached behind the girl's head and pulled out a small, ticking metal box, wires extending to bracelets around her wrists. The little girl looked up at Sherlock; she was beginning to fall in and out of consciousness. He could tell by the bloodshot nature of her eyes that she hadn't slept at all that night.

As Lestrade ran out to the squad car, Sherlock traced his fingers along the first bracelet. "This is a frequency-based one. If she talks, it'll set off the box. Is that what he told you?"

The little girl nodded, the vision around her getting faint.

"And the second one goes off if you move, right?"

Again, she nodded, being very careful not to move her wrist.

Giving off a sigh, Sherlock tugged at the wires.

"What the hell are you doing?" Maynard hollered as he kept pulling. "You're going to kill her."

"You're as gullible as the little girl. Of course this won't do anything; he wouldn't have time to set it up properly. If he had tried, it would have blown up in our faces by now. But it was a convincing show." The wires came off the bracelets, with no bombs exploding in their faces. Sherlock pulled the girl out of the closet and into his arms.

"Get her to a doctor, now," he sternly said to Maynard as Lestrade came running back in. "And tell the Bomb Squad they are no longer needed." Sherlock huffed disappointedly; part of him wished that the contraption had been a real bomb; it certainly would have made the case much more interesting. He handed the girl off to Lestrade, who awkwardly held her in his arms. She had passed out, her pale blue eyes finally closing as her breathing deepened.

Sherlock went back to the living room, plopping down on the small chair next to the dead couple. Again, he was disappointed. Thoroughly disappointed. The case was a dead end; there was nothing that could be found if there wasn't another body to be found. Sherlock knew the Doll Maker would not risk getting caught again; outside of the hurt ego, the he wouldn't attempt another kidnapping until he was guaranteed a chance at perfection. And that could take forever.

As he leaned his head back in thought, his fingertips pressing against each other, he caught a small card poking out from the bottom of the sofa; something he had failed to notice two seconds before.

He pulled it out, the bright colors of a china doll in a pink dress on the first side, his calling on the other: _Another Work by the Doll Maker._ The exact same card found at each crime scene and on each petrified child.

_The Doll Maker_, Sherlock thought to himself before slipping the card into his coat pocket, _The Doll Maker. _


	2. Chapter 2: After the End

"Mr. Holmes, you will be held in contempt of court if you do not sit down immediately."

Sherlock was about to retort the simple fact that he shouldn't have to listen to the judge who was embezzling money from the Court funds when he felt Maynard's hand grab his shoulder and shove him back down into his seat. He felt the Inspector give a sigh behind him before closing his eyes in boredom. This was boring. This Court Summons was boring.

"Your Honor," Maynard reprieved, trying to keep the judge calm, "you must forgive Mr. Holmes; he is not officially part of the investigation concerning the child."

"Then what the hell is he doing here?" The judge was at his wits end. "This is not a summons concerning the case; this is a hearing to decide what to do with the girl."

"Exactly, your Honor," Sherlock spat, "so why don't you let me tell you what to do with her."

Maynard turned around and looked at Sherlock, his eyes giving off the same admonitory tone that always followed his voice when it came to his consulting agent. Within the judge's office, the dark colors of the wood-themed room almost made Sherlock laugh; a room made to look so old and so royal and important, when really it didn't do a thing. The courts didn't do a thing; the detectives couldn't do a thing. Nothing was stopping crime in the city of London, and yet there they all were, standing around discussing what to do with a little girl. And while Sherlock would much rather experiment with the new equipment he now had access to in the St. Bard's hospital, he had been summoned there for a _little girl_.

"The kidnapper, or the Doll Maker as he prefers to call himself, will come back for her. He doesn't pick and choose children at random; he's meticulous, especially when it comes to selecting the children. Each one of them, while alive, exhibited a certain characteristic that followed along the lines of the character they were dressed as when found."

"Like the Little Bo Peep girl," Maynard interrupted, "her family worked as sheep farmers close to Edinburgh."

"Yes, get on with it," the judge impatiently sped on.

"He will come back for her," said Sherlock. "I guarantee he will come back for her. He can't stand the idea of missing a piece in his 'Fairytale Collection.' He's a perfectionist; she ruined his collection. He will stop at nothing to get her body."

"Which is why I propose we put her in Witness Protection," Maynard stated. "She needs to be given protection from the state. She needs to be monitored, and only the government can give her-"

"Actually, you're wrong," Sherlock boldly jumped in. "The only thing that can be done is to catch him. And she is the only trace we have to him."

"Hang on," the Judge stuttered, "are you suggesting we let him kidnap her?"

"Yes."

The other two men went into an uproar. "Sherlock," Maynard yelled out, "you cannot be serious. She will die if we hand her over."

"She will not die."

"You can't guarantee that!" Maynard hollered back.

"I can if I'm there to catch him."

"And what if he gets away? Then we have another dead child and a serial killer still on the loose."

"I won't let him get away. But I need something that will bring him to me. She is the only thing that he will risk something for; if we lose this chance, another one might not come again."

"But what you're suggesting is putting her as bait."

"Precisely," Sherlock said with complete and utter cool. Maynard wondered if the man had any emotion whatsoever. "That's precisely what we need to do, and don't you dare argue that Maynard. I'm telling you, she's the only connection we've got. You know he's been careful; there is no other way to trace his movements, his actions, or his whereabouts. The only thing we know is that he's probably working on transport ships around the UK, and that he does heavy lifting. That's the only way he can get so far around the UK, with kids in N. Ireland, England, and Wales missing. That's not enough to go off of. He knows what he's doing, and if we don't stop this with her, he will return."

"Absolutely not!" the Judge screamed. Sherlock stared at him resolutely. "We will not allow the girl to be used as bait. However, Maynard, I am rejecting your petition to give this girl government protection."

"What?!" Maynard continued to yell, instead turning his attention to the fat Judge in front of him. "Michael, are you kidding me?"

"In here, it's Judge Carliff," the judge continued, "and no, I am not. There is no guarantee that this so called 'Doll Maker' will come back for her. Besides, if he's smart, he'll lay low and especially stay away from her."

"But he's not smart," Sherlock said cynically, sitting down in the chair once more; he knew this battle was over, "he's a genius. He's a psychologically ruined genius. And this is his game."

"Be quiet Mr. Holmes. Maynard, the little girl will be safe enough in whatever orphanage she ends up in. Of course her foster family, assuming she gets one, will be made aware of her situation, and they can take care of security as they see fit. Until then, there is no need to place her in Witness Protection."

"But—" Maynard began to protest, but looking at Sherlock sitting quietly while staring out the window made him see there was no point. If Sherlock felt it was a lost cause, he knew it was too. Turning back to Judge Carliff, he let the anger flash in his eyes. "If anything happens to her, the blood is on your hands this time, Judge Carliff." And with that, he stormed out of the room.

There was a silence as Sherlock continued to look out the window.

"What the hell are you still doing here, freak?" Carliff taunted; he had already heard the stories from other prosecutors around the Scotland Yard about the so-called genius madman who could see everything.

Sherlock flashed a look that made the judge very uneasy. "Nothing; I was just wondering why you have all your bribe money hidden in the bottom leg of your desk. It's a terrible idea to keep that money so close to where you work. Even if it's to keep an eye on it, it's your eye that gave the spot away. You really ought to be more careful as to where your attention is during these meetings."

Carliff's eyes widened in astonishment and fear. "Don't worry," Sherlock continued, "I won't tell a soul. Do what you want with the girl; I don't care. But whatever the Doll Maker does next is on your hands."

With that, he got up and left the room, listening as the judge slipped down towards the bottom of his desk and reach for the hidden cash in his desk compartment. _Fools_, he thought_, they are all fools, letting the Doll Maker go. All for the life of one little girl. _


	3. Chapter 3: 12 Years Later

**Chapter 3: 12 Years Later**

"Well then," Lestrade sighed as he looked at the trainees list, "only five more to go." Ever since becoming the Detective Inspector, it was his job to watch over the progress of the trainees, and it was probably one of the most boring aspects of his job. Most were overly ambitious young-uns (an exaggeration: most of them were in their twenties already) who expected the glamour of the televised crime shows. Flipping through some of their resumes, he felt the normal sense of disappointment; very few of these kids were ready to become detectives. Of course, he could just nudge most of them towards a career in police work, but that still didn't change the fact that he had to pay attention to them for the next three months.

"Let the next one in," he called out to his secretary. Fifteen trainees told to look at fifteen cold cases; an attempt to get a 'fresh point of view' on old situations. All they needed was his approval, and they could start a simple form of 'investigation.' Lestrade was thankful that it kept most of them somewhat busy; it would be a pain to have to drag around fifteen students around crime scenes. At least now they would be preoccupied with their own work, and he could finally take care of his work rather than babysit.

"Anna Huntington's coming in right now," his secretary called as the clicking of boots hitting the tiled floor came in.

Lestrade was surprised at what he saw; a young girl strode in, pulling her long light blue coat off and folding it over the chair. "Sorry I'm late," she said, "I was pulling the case from the library." She reached into her backpack, pulling out a manila file.

Lestrade gaped at her for a second before snapping out of a daze. She seemed so young, even for a trainee. "Yes, um, Huntington was it?"

"Anna Huntington, sir." She gave another smile before handing him the file.

"Let's see your case then," Lestrade smiled back. There was no doubt she was very pretty. Her long hair fell down her shoulders and along her back. She looked like a schoolgirl in her plaid mini-skirt and white top with the black knee socks. It was hard to take her seriously with how young she looked. He kept smiling as he opened the front cover, laughing at how ridiculous the trainee selection process must have been becoming. He kept smiling until he saw the premise of the case, and paled.

"The Doll Maker case?" he looked up at her, his brows furrowed. "You want to reopen the Doll Maker case?" She couldn't be serious; it was far too hard for any young trainee. His mind flashed back to the last crime scene; his first case as the Assistant Detective Inspector. Had it already been twelve years since the horrors? He remembered all the blood found along the walls, and the two adults strewn along the sofa. He remembered seeing the nail marks in the wooden floor. He remembered how that little girl had clutched on to him as he carried her to the ambulance. Had it really been twelve years already? What had happened to that little girl?

"Yes sir. Would that be a problem?"

Lestrade gaped, breaking away from his momentary flashbacks. "Huntington, you do realize that we will be evaluating your progress through this case, even if it is considered a 'cold case'?"

"Yes sir."

"Then what I would suggest, as many of you peers have already done, is to do a case that can be solved with today's technology. Pick a case, maybe twenty or thirty years old, that only needs a new fingerprint analysis or a blood test. Solving a cold case is probably the best way to ensure a spot as a detective with the Scotland Yard, especially when the Board of Directors reviews your work."

"I am aware of that."

"Then why not pick an easier case?" he asked. "You've looked through this evidence; there is not a lot to work with. A lot of the evidence is still inconclusive, and it doesn't look like he's coming back."

Anna stared at him for a moment before wetting her lips. "Sir, what would be the point of solving what you deem to be a 'simple' case? This is a puzzle; much more interesting than any case that could be solved through lab tests. I can leave that to members of Forensics. This is much more intriguing." Something in how Anna said this left a chill in Lestrade's spine: she was serious.

"I'm telling you," Lestrade continued, "this case will be much too hard for you. Even if you are interested in the premise, there is absolutely nothing to work with. It will only frustrate you."

"Sir," Anna interrupted, "is that the only objection you have to me opening the Doll Maker file?"

Lestrade stared straight into her dark eyes, wide with youth and defiance. "Well, yes. There doesn't seem to be any other reason not to. But are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes sir," she replied. "Like I said, it's a puzzle, and it'll be a good one, regardless of whether or not I solve it."

"Then you're set." Lestrade signed off on the forms and handed the file back to Anna. She slipped them back into her backpack before standing.

"Thank you, sir," she said politely as she shook his hand and slipped her light blue coat back on. It cut off right about her knees, making the coat look more like a dress.

"By the way sir," she paused before turning away, "there is a source listed in the file that doesn't have a full name. He seems to have heavy influence in some of the evidence found at the crime scenes, and most hypothesizes seem to be his. Can you tell me who that was?"

Lestrade blinked before giving a small smile. "I believe I can. Are the initials SH?"

"Yes sir."

"Are you acquainted with a Sherlock Holmes?"

"I had a vague feeling it would be him, sir. Thank you. Permission to contact him regarding the case?"

"Permission granted. 221B Baker Street. Keep me posted Huntington. And you should know: it's never too late to switch."

With that she smiled and left, with nothing but the clicking of her boots to follow. Lestrade only watched her in wonder for a second before flipping through the trainee resumes.

"Shall I let the next one in?" his secretary called in.

"Yeah, sure," Lestrade called out before tucking her file into his desk. It would certainly make for an interesting read.


	4. Chapter 4: Old Friends New Acquaintances

**Chapter 4: Old Friends and New Acquaintances **

"Sherlock," Watson called out as went down the stairs towards the living room, "Sherlock, are you awake?" It was already noon, but it felt later on the gray fall afternoon. The clouds muddled up the little bit of light entering the flat, and Watson could not help but feel somewhat dreary, especially having taken a late shift at the emergency room the night before. And if he felt dreary, there was no guess as to what mood Sherlock would be in.

It had been a year since he had returned from the dead, and life had returned to a somewhat normal situation. Although it took a few months to get Sherlock back into the Scotland Yard's consulting position (now he was officially certified, so neither the Board of Directors nor Anderson/Donovan could no longer complain about his ability to visit crime scenes) and a few more months for independent clients to start walking through the doors of 221B Baker Street again, things were more or less just like before. Only this time, John watched Sherlock much more closely.

"Sherlock?" he called out once again as he entered the living room before giving a gasp at the scene. Right in the middle of the room was Sherlock, straddling a large burlap sack while stabbing it with a blood stained knife. As he thrust the kitchen knife up and down murderously, blood trickled off his hand and onto the blade and the sack, with even more drops of blood flying onto the carpet around him. His face was clenched with tension as he gave one final stab and left the knife in the sack.

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you doing?" Watson asked incredulously while going into the kitchen to grab a first aid kit; there was a surprising amount of blood everywhere.

"Testing something for the Mangotti case," he replied coolly, getting up off his knees and staring at his handiwork on the floor. "Teresa Mangotti claimed that her husband cut her hand with a knife as he was threatening her, so she grabbed the knife and stabbed him back in self-defense. But clearly that's impossible; if he had cut her first, there would be a larger range of where her blood would have fallen, both around the corpse and on the handle of the knife. No, she stabbed him first, cut herself to leave her blood on the handle, shook her hand around the body to leave a splatter around the corpse, and then called the police. This wasn't self-defense; this was murder." His eyes, which were once gleaming with exhilarating at the prospect of solving this case, now slowly dulled.

"What a boring solution," he mumbled as he fell onto the sofa.

"Alright, Sherlock," John replied as he brought in the kit, "just don't get any blood on the sofa please." He tried to wipe the cut with a towel, but Sherlock grabbed it from him first.

"I am perfectly capable of caring for my own wound."

"I'm a doctor, and have fun trying to bandage your dominant hand alone." He grabbed the cloth back and poured antiseptic directly on the gash. "Does that sting? I hope it was worth it. Seriously, Sherlock, any deeper and this gash would need stitches."

"It won't need stitches; I made the cut shallow enough, just like she did." Sherlock wasn't paying attention; he was only growling at the fact that John was trying to babysit him again. It had been that way ever since he had returned, something he had hoped John would have grown out of after some time.

"Oh, you did this to yourself, did you?" John sighed, wrapping the cloth bandage all around the palm of Sherlock's right hand and holding it off with a clip. And with that, Sherlock jerked his hand away and grabbed his phone, texting the results directly to Lestrade.

_Arrest the wife. Ignore self-defense claims.—SH _

Walking over to the window, Sherlock grabbed his violin and began to pluck away at the strings. Watson smiled to himself; he knew Sherlock's hand was still stinging with the antiseptic, which was why he wouldn't pick up his bow just yet. His attempts at looking stolid were so like the sociopath, and John stood up to return the medical kit to its rightful place on the kitchen counter. Now there was blood on the carpet; he knew he would never be able to explain that one to Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman.

"Well then," John started when he returned, "what are you working on today, outside of murdering a sack?"

"Our next case is already here, John," Sherlock replied, still staring out the window down on Baker Street.

At the sound of the door downstairs creaking open, John turned around. The low clicking of heels were heard coming up the stairs, and a young girl in a light blue coat appeared in the doorway. In the grey light of the room, her dark features were accentuated and her pale skin glowed slightly. She gave a small look of surprise at John, who stared at her with equal surprise; she was pretty, very pretty, and that caught the army doctor off guard.

"Hello," she said, breaking the bit of awkward tension building between them. "You must be Dr. Watson." She reached out and offered her hand with a grave smile.

"Ah, yes," he replied with hesitation in his voice as he shook her hand, "and you are?"

"Anna Huntington, an intern at Scotland Yard." Again, John could only gape at her; she didn't look a day over eighteen, and even that was far too young to be considered for an internship there.

"Um, well it's nice to meet you. Please, sit down. Sherlock," he turned around, to see Sherlock already staring at their visitor with a strange look in his eyes. "I'll make us some tea?" he asked hesitantly; it had been a while since he saw that strange look: a look of vague familiarity.

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you" the girl replied as she pulled the backpack off her shoulder and took off her coat. John stared at her for a second more before going to the kitchen in a daze, leaving the other two to stare at each other momentarily.

As he added water to the kettle and set it on the stove, Watson sat down on a stool and rubbed his face with his hands, allowing a small laugh to escape his lips. She was extremely pretty, and extremely young. His attraction to her felt silly, but he wasn't like Sherlock; he couldn't simply ignore instantaneous emotions. Feeling somewhat foolish at his first reaction to Anna Huntington, he put an excessive amount of mental effort into preparing tea.


	5. Chapter 5: Reunion

**Chapter 5: Reunion**

Sherlock surveyed the young girl as she stood there. She tucked her long dark hair out of her face and simply stared back at him. She looked like a doe; large, young eyes almost searching for something in him.

She found that there was something admirable about Sherlock's long, lean figure against the gray light streaming through the window. In the same way it accentuated her darker features, it accentuated the contours and lines of his face, presenting him as a devious man. She noticed the hand holding his violin: his index finger was tapping the peg lightly with a mechanical consistency. It then paused, causing a minute lag in the pattern before continuing, but she noticed it nonetheless. He recognized her; that was certain.

Seconds passed, and there was only the sound of John in the kitchen preparing tea. After a minute or two, the girl let out a small sigh and began to walk about the room, studying the books on the bookshelf. Sherlock's eyes followed her as she pulled out a medical volume on blood and blood disorders.

"I suppose you do remember me, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly, as to ensure John would not hear in the kitchen but loud enough so that Sherlock could make out what she was saying. His eyes never left her; she turned around and looked at him, hoping he would say something. "But you never forget your first case, do you? That's what I've been told. Actually, I've been told _you_ never forget anything."

"It's been twelve years. You go by Anna now, I take it?" he replied as he put down his violin.

"Yes."

"And you're investigating your own case: the Doll Maker."

"Yes." She gave off another grave smile before walking past him, stepping over the torn-up sack to sit down on the sofa. Sherlock could tell she was purposely trying to keep her actions simple; she didn't want to be so easy for him to read. He remained standing, both of them simply staring at each other with mutual curiosity.

_She certainly is an intriguing case on her own_, he thought to himself, already beginning to analyze her. _Long brown hair: hasn't cut it in a while, but it is properly cared for when looking at the state of the ends: she's been living on her own for the past two years and simply hasn't had someone to cut it for her. Short skirt, knee-high socks, heeled boots: aware of her own sex-appeal and tries to come off as "intimidating." Clashes with a white turtleneck: a girl trying to use sex-appeal and physicalities to get places wouldn't have worn a turtleneck, so she's not promiscuous. Smart: how else would she have been able to walk in to the Police Academy as a sixteen year old? Faint blue ring around the iris: either has a genetic condition or wears contacts. Most likely the contacts, as her eyes are actually light blue._ _There is blood along the skin by her nails: she has anxiety problems, scratches along her own skin to cope. One of her fingers is bleeding now, and two, no four, others have growing scabs: something is scaring her. _

"I remember you," she said as she tugged at the zipper on her backpack and searched through the papers. "That sounds obsessive. I guess I what I should say is that you are one of the few things I remember clearly. My memories are foggy; there are spots where I can't remember anything at all. It's a shame how kids react to trauma; I should have made a better attempt to remember things. I remember you pulling the wires off my wrist and pulling me out of that closet. I should thank you for that."

"I found you; I wasn't trying to rescue you," he responded with no emotion whatsoever.

"I know," she paused. Sherlock couldn't read anything emotional off her face; she had trained herself not to give it away. The fake smiles only guarded her true thoughts. If he had not known her past, he would have very easily assumed her to be a fellow sociopath. "I looked through the file, and I found your inputs on the case," she continued. "You were right; _he_ did try to take me again."

"Did he?" Sherlock had heard nothing about what had happened to the little girl, but that he had made a second attempt was no surprise to him. In fact, he found himself more annoyed by the fact that he had missed an opportunity to catch the kidnapper.

"At the orphanage, there was a break-in two weeks after I was entered in. So, the courts finally took Maynard's proposition seriously. They changed my name, moved me to an orphanage in Essex, and left me there." Anna heard the kettle boil in the kitchen and knew her remaining time was short. "Nothing happened for a long time after that."

Sherlock heard the same hiss, and he gazed at her as he sat on the chair opposite her.

"You seem disappointed," she said coldly; so she had been analyzing him as well.

"As do you," he replied curtly.

"I wouldn't mistake general cordiality with disappointment when it comes to me."

"What were you expecting when you came here?" he asked her. "A hug, or a kiss, or general praise on how wonderful it is that you didn't turn out to be a psychopath? Were you looking for an apology because I didn't catch him?"

"None of the above, Mr. Holmes," she quietly remarked. "I only wanted to meet you; nothing more, nothing less. I wouldn't read too much into it. I simply came here to get your opinion on this case."

"And something else," he replied, leaning towards her. She was hiding something.

"What something else is that?"

"You keep glancing towards your coat; your right side pocket, to be precise. So why don't you tell me what's in there?"

Anna smiled once more; of course he would notice that. "Before I explain," she started, "I want to ask you not to tell anyone about my connection to the case, in—"

"In fear that no one would take you seriously? You already have a hard time with that just by your young looks, don't you?"

"Precisely, Mr. Holmes," this time she glared at him, those dark eyes wide with a defiance she had grown accustomed to having to show to authority. Her age was her weak point, and she knew it. There was no point in trying to look older; that would only make her seem younger in the eyes of any adult. But by accepting the fact that she was eighteen, she had to fight to make people take her seriously.

"Basically, you don't want me to tell Lestrade or Watson."

"Or anyone else for that matter, yes," Anna replied.

"Well then, Anna," he whispered letting each syllable cut into the air, "your secret's safe with me." His fingers pressed against each other, the exciting tension already beginning to build in his fingertips. An amused light entered his eyes; this promised to be a very interesting case indeed.

"Now, tell me what's happened."


	6. Chapter 6: Reminders and Returns

**Chapter 6: Reminders and Returns **

Watson walked back into the living room with the tea on a tray. He observed the two players sitting on opposite sides of the murdered sack: Anna on the sofa holding a manila file in her hands and Sherlock in his large chair with a look of amusement still on his face. She had excited him with whatever was in that folder, and Watson knew something big was about to happen.

"Sorry about that," Watson said, breaking through the silent tension building between them with as normal of a voice he could speak in; he still felt foolish about his initial reaction to the girl and tried to redeem himself. "Now, what is this case?"

Giving an annoyed sigh, Sherlock reached over and plucked the file out of Anna's hands (of course Watson picked that moment to interrupt) Opening it up, he silently reviewed all the notes ever taken. "Go ahead and explain everything to him, _Anna,_" he mumbled, looking up at her momentarily. He would be too busy reading the things he already knew, something he found to be utterly boring. But at least it would save him from something more boring: _telling _someone something he already knew all about.

"Alright," she said as she pulled a cup of tea off the tray. Taking a sip, she formulated her thoughts and began.

"It began about twelve years ago. In December of 2000, a family in the London suburbs was killed. It happened in the night; the neighbors didn't notice anything until the next morning when their door was wide open. It was a double murder: wife and husband were both shot in the abdomen, and their cause of death was labeled as blood loss. Their bodies were found sitting next to each other in the living room, but they were shot in the upstairs bedroom. Their five year old daughter, Jamie, was missing.

"There didn't seem to be anything unusual about the crime; it was as normal as a murder/kidnapping could be. The general motive was listed as kidnapping, and the usual alerts were made out to the public. The only thing that could be labeled as unusual at the time was that the murderer had left absolutely no clues about himself in the house: no fingerprints, no hairs, absolutely nothing. He probably wore gloves and managed to remove himself of any potential identification items, meaning this was an extremely well-planned, premeditated kidnapping.

"Had I been allowed to inspect that crime scene, I'm sure I would have found something. That was his first successful attempt; if there were any mistakes, it would have been there," Sherlock pointed out, flipping the file shut and handing it to John, who looked at him questioningly.

"Sherlock, they consulted you for this case?"

"Yes, when it was finally too late. It was the first case Scotland Yard asked for my help on; had they asked six months earlier, there would have been a much more conclusive solution to this."

"Hang on, what?" John asked, looking back at Anna. "What does he mean by a more 'conclusive' solution?"

Anna nodded her head towards the manila file and continued to talk as John leafed through the papers. "One week later, Jamie's body was found. It was in a park about two miles away from her house."

John, simply scanning the information, came across a series of envelopes; a dozen little packets with names written on the front. Opening the one labeled Riley, Jamie, a dozen snapshot photos fell out. What he saw made him sick.

Jamie was lying on the park bench wearing a pale white dress. Her dark hair was tucked neatly under her head. In her hand was dark red apple with one small bite missing from it. Her face was pale, almost white as snow, and her lips were painted deep red, slightly open as if to breathe. She looked like she was simply lying under the winter sun, enjoying the snowy afternoon. She could have been Snow White, lying there waiting for her prince to come awaken her.

But her eyes; her eyes were wide open, staring lifelessly at the camera. Her eyes were cold and dead. She was dead.

"I remember this," John stuttered, "I remember hearing about this in the news. This girl, she was—"

"Made into a doll," Sherlock completed, glancing sideways at his companion.

John looked up at Anna, who was staring down at the floor at the fallen photos of Jamie. Her silence scared him for a moment; she had no reaction to this, only a cold hard look. He took another envelope and tore it open, followed by another and another. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, Little Bo Peep, the Pied Piper, Jack the Giant Slayer, Rapunzel, Prince Charming, Aladdin; eleven children in total.

"My god," Watson whispered, slumping back into his chair. "Yes, I remember this. The media; they made such a big ruckus about this when it first happened, but I didn't realize there were eleven of them."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "well, the Yard did try to make the media quiet down; Maynard's initial impression was that whoever was doing this was doing this for the attention, so after the third child he made them promise not to broadcast another word. But he was wrong; the lack of media attention didn't change anything. You can't use media tactics to defer a psychopathic serial kidnapper."

"Who's Maynard?" Watson asked.

"The Detective Inspector before Lestrade; he was the one who got the Yard to listen to me." Sherlock waved the question away quickly; it was irrelevant.

"They all followed the same pattern," Anna continued. "Parents shot in the abdomen and left in the living room, child missing for a week, and then they reappear in a highly public place dressed as a fictional character. They all have some unidentifiable paralyzer compound in their blood, mixed with some other unknown compounds, but the Yard's lab didn't have the proper equipment at the time to analyze its makeup. This happened eleven times, but nothing could be found about the kidnapper at any of the crime scenes.

"The only thing we have regarding his identity was his calling card," she picked one of Jamie's photos off the floor and handed it John. Pulling it closer to his face, he spotted a card in one of her hands; it was about the size of a playing card, with a painted picture of a china doll in a pink dress on one side. Picking up another picture, John was able to see the other side: _Another Work by the Doll Maker_ was the inscription, typed out in black ink.

"The Doll Maker," Sherlock mumbled, reveling in his own thoughts. He had taken the card from his first investigation and figuratively torn it to shreds: he had an analysis done on the types of ink, researched where the paper could be found, attempted to find the maker of the typewriter, but they were made from such varying resources that it was impossible to deduct anything but the fact that the Doll Maker had easy access to multiple locations in the UK. Regardless, it would have been impossible to track his whereabouts.

Silence filled the room, everyone sitting in their own thoughts and reflecting over the Doll Maker case. It was John who broke the heavy silence.

"It's been twelve years since the last child was found," he said, handing the manila file back to the girl. "Judging by the state of this folder, it's been tucked away from view ever since. Why are you opening this case up now?"

Anna gave one of her grave smiles. "Jane, the girl turned into Sleeping Beauty, was a good friend of mine. She lived down the road from me. I never really knew what happened to her; no one ever bothered to explain it to me. I just want to know what happened. I found out Holmes was actually part of the investigations, so I was hoping he would be able to remember something."

"And what exactly are you hoping to achieve?"

"It doesn't matter," she said softly, "I just want to find out why her in particular. There were plenty of children in that neighborhood, so why her? The Doll Maker's alive out there; I just need to know what was going on in his head."

Sherlock withheld the desire to laugh: she was a good liar, but not good enough. She had been able to hold eye contact, so John had failed to notice the twitching of her fingers. Her fingers were her weakness, giving off her deceits. But he knew John was already smitten with the young girl; actually, he didn't know which was funnier, Anna's pathetic lie or the fact that it was exactly the kind of emotional plea John would accept simply because she was an attractive young girl.

Anna stood up. "I really should be going; Lestrade will be expecting me back soon." Carefully slipping the file back into her bag and pulling the coat on, she reached out and shook John's hand, feeling the quickening of his pulse at her touch. "Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson. Holmes, I'll be back as soon as I find anything in the evidence basement. I'm sure Lestrade will give you my phone number, so let me know if you need anything."

And with that, she turned around and walked right out of the flat, gone just as quickly as she came. As her boots clicked down the stairs and out the door, Sherlock rose from his chair and drifted to the window.

John took a deep breath, finding this case slightly overwhelming. "Sherlock, I'm just going to get a bit of air. I'll be right back." With that, he reached to put on a coat.

Sherlock ignored the remark. Looking down on the street, he saw Anna Huntington walking in her blue coat. She paused and looked right up at the window of 221B Baker Street, meeting his gaze. Eyes now tinged with some calm fear, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a relatively new card. She held it up towards Sherlock's window, allowing him to get a good look: the Doll Maker's calling card. Two seconds later, she slid the card back into her pocket and continued walking.

Now Sherlock understood; he was back. The Doll Maker was back, and he had already made is presence known to Anna. He would not wait long to begin. Allowing another smile to escape, he laughed, anticipating the excitement coming towards him. And as John left the apartment, confused about what that man could possibly be laughing about, Sherlock picked up his violin.

"The game is afoot."


	7. Chapter 7: Blood and Formaldehyde

**Chapter 7: Blood and Formaldehyde **

"What am I missing?"

Sherlock sat in St. Bard's lab, sitting crossed-legged on the cold tile floor, eleven folders surrounding him in a circle. Fifteen rainbow bottles were set in front of him in a row, each labeled with his scrawled scribbles. Chin in hand, he was absorbed in his mind palace, recalling just about every chemical compound known to man, and a few he had developed on his own.

In the three days that followed Anna's initial visit, Sherlock had spent hours in the lab reading over each individual child's biopsies, mixing unbelievable amounts of chemicals, and just thinking. He made no inclination towards Molly as she entered the room with two cups of steaming coffee in her hands.

"Here you go Sherlock," Molly beamed as she set the Styrofoam cup within his little circle. In the few months she had spent with him while he hid from the world, she had grown accustomed to his silence while in the Mind Palace. His silence no longer offended her; it was just a natural part of who he was, and she accepted that. "Two sugars, just as you like it."

When he didn't reply, she smiled quietly to herself and set about organizing some of Sherlock's chaos on the lab counter. Bottles were everywhere and the room smelled heavily of formaldehyde. Slides with stained tissues were under the microscopes. Test tubes and vials of blood littered the white ceramic table, some threatening to roll off the edge and come crashing to the floor.

"He must be testing rigor mortus or tissue preservation," she mumbled under her breath, recognizing some of the chemicals Sherlock was messing around with. It was the first time she had seen him in a few weeks, and it was nice to see that he was adjusting well to his return to society and Scotland Yard after a year. But even in that moment, she really didn't know what Sherlock had been up to.

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock suddenly spoke, making Molly jump ever so slightly. "Everything is in its place." He picked up the Styrofoam cup from the floor and lifted the coffee to his lips. "Thank you," he said before swirling each of the rainbow bottles in front of him.

"Anytime," Molly replied, turning around and looking down at him. She stared at him endearingly, and Sherlock felt that look aimed at the back of his head. It always led to an awkward silence; he would never understand her sentimental feelings for him, but at least he knew not to comment on it now.

"Anyways," she said, breaking the pause, "what are you working on?"

Sherlock grumbled. "I'm trying to figure out what chemical compound the Doll Maker used to paralyze those children. But whoever did the autopsies on these bodies did a bloody terrible job analyzing the blood or tissue samples properly; they couldn't identify any of the chemicals or why there was such a high antibody count in their blood. It's bloody useless and a waste of time. In fact, this is the same caliber of work as Anderson's, and I'm tempted to go to the Yard right now and beat him with his own analysis."

Molly laughed lightly before realizing the connotations of his statement. She was about to ask who the Doll Maker was and why there were paralyzed children involved when John burst in through the lab doors. Molly jumped again before realizing who it was.

"Hello John," she said, her voice wobbling a little. She still felt guilt for lying to John about Sherlock's suicide despite the fact that John had forgiven her the moment she apologized.

"Yes, hello Molly," he replied curtly, his breathing heavy and his shoulders heaving. He knew he shouldn't have replied so harshly to her (especially since Molly was being so careful around him), but he couldn't help it; he was angry. Sherlock didn't even turn around, so John hollered, "Sherlock, we've been trying to reach you all morning. You haven't responded to any of Lestrade's texts, or mine for that matter."

"Yes, well," Sherlock replied calmly, "as you can see, I've been busy."

"You better mean your phone's off."

"If you want a more blunt answer, John, I've simply been ignoring your texts." Sherlock swiveled around himself to face a different file, still not looking up to greet his friend. "Besides, if Lestrade desperately needed me, like he so often does, he would have come to St. Bard's himself rather use you as the messenger. So tell me, what trivial thing did he want to tell me?"

John gave off a frustrated sigh; the worry, the panic, the fear was all pointless. Sherlock was here, sitting in St. Bard's, just like he usually was. And although he had known that, deep down in his heart was the fear that Sherlock had disappeared again. John knew that that panic would eventually dissipate, but until then he tried to keep Sherlock close.

"I wouldn't call it trivial," John replied, trying to keep his curt tone even. "He wanted to tell you about Huntington."

"Oh," Sherlock finally looked up, intently staring back at John. "What about the girl?" he asked, already knowing the vast majority of what John was going to say.

"She's unbelievable," John said, pulling out a folder from inside his jacket. "Lestrade gave me her file, and she's unbelievable. Listen to this: she was adopted by a couple in Essex when she was seven, finished her A-levels when she was fourteen, and spent two years at university. But that's not the most interesting part. She walked into the Police Academy when she was sixteen years old and demanded to take the final exam for the graduating class of detectives. She scored the top mark, and that was without any schooling from the Academy; she beat out the entire graduating class."

"Interesting," Sherlock mumbled under his breath. While he had hoped John or Lestrade had figured out who she really was, he conceded to the fact that neither of them were particularly intelligent enough to be able to piece together her real past. No doubt she had taken great pains to hide that from her files and records.

"Of course," John continued, "the Academy forced her to take one year before allowing her to join the Yard for on-site training, but still—"he paused "she's a genius. She's only eighteen, for Christ sake, and she's almost a detective."

"Yes," Sherlock commented, somewhat bored, "yes, that is interesting, but that doesn't help me whatsoever with this blood analysis, so go tell Lestrade not to bother me with anymore trivial comments."

"You could tell him yourself," John parleyed. As he looked down at the files, he saw the names of the eleven children and was suddenly reminded of the case he had been thrust into, evoking the natural comment, "where is Huntington anyways?"

Just before Molly could ask who Huntington was, another figure burst through the door. Molly's mouth hung slightly as she saw a young girl gaping at her through the doorway, a burst of blue popping against the gray and white colors of the lab. John nodded politely, and Sherlock popped up from the floor to stare at her.

Anna simply stared back at the lot of them, her eyes wide like a doe and her dark hair pulled into a side braid. Molly was shocked by how young she seemed to be; far too young to be carrying a stack of papers and fifteen vials of blood. John had never gotten over that initial shock and shared Molly's silence.

"Hello," Anna nodded at John, giving off a small smile before turning to Sherlock. "I got more blood and some information on the victims' genetics." She set her papers down and passed the blood to Sherlock, who picked his bottles off the floor and instantly began to add drops of them into each vial.

He sat down on a stool and watched each vial intently, waiting for a reaction. Anna looked over at Molly and reached out to shake her hand, John gazing as they introduced themselves to each other. Anna smiled at John, reaching out to shake his hand and make a general remark about the weather. There was something so intriguing about her, the child genius, and John could not figure it out.

"It's so nice to meet you, Miss Huntington," Molly stuttered, somewhat intimidated by the child-genius who stood in front of her.

"Please, call me Anna." John noted the intentional coldness in her voice. No, it wasn't coldness; it was formality, professionalism, detachment. The light smile seemed heavy on her face; her actions trying to exceed her age. Although she succeeded in acted older, John could only wonder what had possessed her to be so much more mature than she really was.

"How have you been, Dr. Watson?" John shook out of his reverie when she had turned to him and asked. Dark jeans and gray tank top, she looked thin. Although she was eighteen, he could see the slight contours of bones along her clavicle, giving her a more ethereal look that worried him.

"I've been good," he replied, vaguely nodding his head. "What have you been doing?"

"I've been here for the last couple days helping Holmes. It's still my case, remember," she fingered the files on the counter lightly. "Well, it seems like I've been running around more than actually helping."

"Any breakthroughs yet?"

"Damn it!" Sherlock yelled out, breaking the general air of camaraderie. "Nothing's happening."

"What do you mean nothing's happening?" Anna pushed herself the around table and met Sherlock outside his circle of papers. "We've tried every sort of soluble man-made paralysis compound here. Something has to be happening."

"This won't work; I need the actual compound. I can't just keep guessing around; I need solid data, not the hypothetical blunderings of a forensics team!"

"We don't have anything better," Anna argued calmly. She never seemed to blow off her cool. "This is all we have; I've searched through all the evidence files. There has got to be something here that can give us a hint as to where the Doll Maker came from. He can't just use a different compound every time he works."

"Get me something better!" Sherlock countered. "Get me something better, Anna."

"I can't." she stated, leaving a chill in Molly's skin. Sherlock glared at her, contemplating what deduction to spew out at her.

_Extra concealer under her eyes trying to hide the purple circles. Her lack of sleep: the nightmares have come back, haven't they Anna?_ Sherlock thought to himself. _The smudged makeup on her left cheek that proved she had been spending more time on her phone than usual (she was right handed, but held the phone in her left): probably talking to her psychologist judging by the bloody state of her right hand. The right pocket of her coat was lifting up slightly more than the left: she played with the card whenever she thought about the Doll Maker, which evidently seems to be a lot. In short, she's a wreck._

He had never spent so long in the lab without solid evidence, and the lack of accomplishments left him infuriated with himself. But she glared back at him with the same defiance, withstanding the intimidation.

Molly was just about to reach out towards Sherlock when the cacophony of three different phones rang simultaneously in the room. Anna, John, and Sherlock each pulled out their cells and Molly watched as two faces grew pale and one excited.

_Get to the Yard now; the Doll Maker is back.- Lestrade_


	8. Chapter 8: Psychological Attachments

**Chapter 8: Psychological Attachments**

"A small household in the suburbs of London," Lestrade said as he opened the preliminary folder on his desk and handed some photos to Sherlock.

"The call came in an hour ago from the neighbors; I initially sent preliminary investigators, but I saw the evidence they were collecting and texted you instead. The neighbors heard two gun shots last night, about two minutes apart, and saw a large silhouette walking out the back door and into a black car on the back road. They claim gunshots from that house were not unusual, so they didn't call in until the next morning when the neighbor went over to check on the wife of the house and found husband's car still in the driveway and the front door unlocked."

Lestrade stood up and began to run around his office, preparing to leave. "Eric and Jeanine Blackstone, married twelve years," he continued, "found dead on the living room sofa. Cause of death appears to be loss of blood due to identical gunshot wounds to the abdomen area. They had one daughter, Clara, age six, who is missing. No signs of force used on the child anywhere, but there's no evidence suggesting that she wasn't kidnapped either. Ultimately, the fact is that _his_ calling card was on the sofa between the couple."

Lestrade stopped by the door to put on his jacket, turning to look at the three other people in his office. Sherlock stood by the window, staring out over the city of London in thought. John wandered behind Lestrade's desk, glancing at the still-open preliminary file before shutting it and handing it over to Lestrade. Anna Huntington had placed herself in the chair facing the desk and was twisting around in her seat to look directly at him with her piercing gaze.

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, his worst nightmare coming true, "he's back, isn't he."

"Yes," Sherlock said, still looking out the window. The small grin of excitement was slowly becoming visible; this was exactly what he had been waiting for. "Yes, of course it's him."

"Well then," John asked, somewhat confused "if we know who did this and what his motive is, what exactly are we doing here?"

"I'm asking you two to help investigate," Lestrade replied, nodding his head towards the door.

"That's not what I meant," John interrupted, giving Lestrade his 'you know what I mean' look. "Why didn't you just tell us to meet you at the crime scene?"

"Oh, because there was one thing I had to do first." Lestrade strode towards Anna, who simply stared up at him. He took a deep breath, trying not to feel like such a heartless bastard for what he was about to do. Her young wide eyes made it hard for him to simply demand her compliance, but what other choice did he have? He was her boss, and she would have to listen. Yet the searching stare she was giving him was chilling to say the least.

"Give me the Doll Maker files, Huntington." He held out his hand, trying not to look directly in her eyes.

"Excuse me?" Anna asked, the defiance already starting to burn in her eyes.

"You'll do as I say," he tried again. "Give me the files."

"No." Anna stood up, still staring incredulously at Lestrade. "Absolutely not, sir; I know exactly what you're trying to do, and you are not taking me off this case."

"Huntington," he tried to admonish, "you're still only a trainee."

"When you signed off on the form, you gave me full jurisdiction over the Doll Maker case and all of its evidence."

"Which is why I'm asking you nicely," he tried to reason. He knew he shouldn't be soft with her, but she was ever so slightly reminding him of his own daughter. "This is no longer a cold case; you need to hand it back over to the Yard. Don't make me force you to."

"Fine, but I'm still on this investigation," she rebelled, yanking the files out of her backpack and shoving them into his hands; they weren't much to give up, as she had made copies. "You can't take me off this case just because I'm a trainee. I know what I'm doing, sir, and whether or not you like it, I'm going with you."

"Huntington, please," Lestrade's voice unintentionally growing softer, "I don't think you should."

"Why not?"

"This is a crime scene."

"Again, sir, what is your point?"

"You know what my point is; you've seen the photographs, the damage the Doll Maker does. It's a bloody mess, and I mean a particularly bloody mess. Huntington, there are things you can't see through those photographs. I can't let you—"

"Don't think that because I am young that I don't have the stomach to handle this," Anna's voice pierced through the room. "That, Inspector Lestrade, would be the biggest mistake you could ever make about me. Don't you dare think that because I am eighteen, my age gives you or any other person in this room the right to bully me into taking the sidelines. I am going with you, and there is nothing you can do to stop me."

John and Lestrade stared at Anna, both with awe in their eyes; that had been the most emotion she had ever shown. It was a raw passion that was rare to be found in the youth that walked into Scotland Yard for training; even rarer in any detective that was in the office today. Anna remained standing, still giving off that challenging look in her eyes. It wasn't a look of anger or angst; only one of necessity.

By the window, Sherlock remained in thought, purposely ignoring the tension sparking behind him. There was something behind the Doll Maker's revival; something that was essential to figuring out his plans.

_The Doll Maker, _he thought, _comes back, and the first thing he does is leave Anna his calling card on her front door. But why; why not just take Anna while she's unaware? Instead, he shoots a random family—no, not a random family. Nothing he ever does is random. He comes back after twelve years, twelve years of planning and forethought. His obsession is Anna: everything revolves around Anna. He finds her, yet he waits. He's probably known about her for years now; he's had plenty of opportunities. So how is this family, this little girl—wait. _

Sherlock looked down at the two photos in his hands: one of the dead parents at the crime scene, one of a small girl named Clara. Eyes quickly shifting back and forth between them, he scanned each of the three faces. Suddenly he stopped and gave a short laugh.

"Clara is adopted," Sherlock announced with utter certainty as the other three abruptly turned towards him, stunned into silence.

"How do you know that?" John asked, astounded as always.

"Look at her face," Sherlock retorted, turning to face everyone in the office. "It's obvious, it's just written all over their bloody faces. Extremely obvious; I don't know how I missed it."

"What do you mean it's obvious?" Lestrade strode over to Sherlock and grabbed the pictures. "Clara has the same hair color as her mother and father. Her skin color is just about the same as theirs as well."

"Don't be ridiculous; look! It's the earlobes," Sherlock continued, "Both her parents have free earlobes, a dominant genetic trait. She has attached earlobes. The likelihood of her gaining the recessive gene from two dominant genes is very unlikely."

"Sherlock, not everyone looks like their parents," Lestrade argued. "She could be the child from a previous marriage."

"No," Sherlock was beginning to get bored arguing what he knew to be a fact. "Look at the photograph: Clara and Jeanine have the same haircut. It's a psychological attachment: if Clara was Eric's daughter from a previous marriage, she would be doing everything to separate herself from her. And Jeanine herself can't have kids."

"How in god's name can you tell that from a photo alone?" Lestrade burst.

"Look at the living room: the mantel behind the sofa is covered with photos of Clara, but there are absolutely no photos of her before the age of two. But notice that there are baby pictures from relatives and friends in the background. Yes, Lestrade, I am positive those aren't Clara because all of them have the dominant free earlobes, which means none of them are her. All those baby photos show a psychological attachment to bearing children, not just having one."

"So she's adopted; does that matter?" John interrupted.

"Of course it does, John. Everything matters." Sherlock snapped, walking towards the door of the office and swinging it wide open. "Lestrade, tell the investigative team to search for adoption papers. We'll meet you at the house. John, go get a cab. I'll meet you down there."

Lestrade and John glanced questioningly at one another before being ushered out the door by Sherlock, leaving Anna standing in the middle of the room. She was pale, eyes wide in thought.

"She's adopted? How did I miss that?" she muttered under her breath.

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Chances are she was from an orphanage in Essex."

"I know." she mumbled, growing another shade lighter while the dark circles under her eyes grew deeper. She gazed down at the floor, deep in thought. Her right hand was in her pocket, and Sherlock could see her finger tracing the calling card.

"You haven't been honest with me," Sherlock prompted, "about what was really on that card of yours."

"You never asked," she still mumbled. He could tell she was now wondering one thing: how long had _he_ known her whereabouts. Her left hand had drifted to her neck, now rubbing her necklace in concern.

Sherlock inwardly groaned; as much as she tried to hide sentiment, he could see it all over her. _Necklace: a gift from someone; it's too decorative for a girl trying to come off as pragmatic. No other jewelry and she never changes it. Of all the things she could be thinking of right now, she's thinking of her parents. How utterly sentimental. _

"What was the inscription on that card?"

When he got no answer, Sherlock strode over to her, pulling her wrist out of the blue coat pocket. She looked up at him, silently trying to prove bravery. Staring her down, he plucked the card out of her fingers and read the black type on the back.

_Two: Then I Come For You. _


	9. Chapter 9: Dysfunctional

**Chapter 9: Dysfunctional**

"What the hell is she doing here?"

At Donovan's complaint, Lestrade turned around and watched as Sherlock, John, and Huntington walked through the doorway of the Blackstone residence. In the dimming light of the cloudy fall afternoon, they appeared as shadows against the gray background of the outdoors sky; but he knew John's and Sherlock's outlines by heart, and the outline of Anna's jacket was impossible to miss. Sherlock strode down the narrow hall, the members of forensics trying to analyze footprints on the floor jumping to move out of his way.

"Don't bother," he called out to Anderson and his team, "his footprints are irrelevant."

"What do you mean 'irrelevant'?" Anderson whined, "They're better than nothing."

"Again, they are irrelevant," Sherlock continued as he pushed past Donovan and Lestrade and went straight into the living room. "We already know who did this; those footprints won't help any more than they did twelve years ago."

As Anderson followed Sherlock into the living room, still whining about a lack of evidence, John and Anna surveyed the small hall. As Lestrade made his way towards them, Donovan made the same remark, eying the girl down with an angry stare.

"What the hell is she doing here?"

Anna took a breath, ready to make a snide remark against Donovan's behalf, before someone else spoke for her. "She's here with my approval," Lestrade countered, giving Donovan a grave, serious look.

"But she's a trainee; look at her, she's not even a real detective. She just got out of school. Lestrade, this is not a daycare."

"Oh really, Donovan? I seem to be babysitting you and Anderson and Sherlock all the time, so one more girl shouldn't be that much more of an effort," the sarcasm dripping from his voice; he was threatening her. "She's here with my approval; you will let Huntington in on this investigation or I will take you off this case myself. Do I make myself clear?"

Donovan gave one hard look at Lestrade, Watson, and Huntington before pushing her way out towards the door. Lestrade turned to Watson and Anna, motioning them to follow him into the living room. As Watson made his way to the sofa to look at the bodies, Anna drew herself closer to Lestrade's side.

"I didn't need that, sir," she stated quietly. "I can take care of Donovan on my own." Her eyes looked up at him, but they weren't filled with the defiance they always were. At that statement, Lestrade smiled: she was thanking him in her own strange little way.

"I'm here to help you, Huntington, not stop you" he muttered quietly as she pushed past him towards the scene of the crime. She was a stubborn girl, but he couldn't help enjoy that about her.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John had been examining the bodies. Anderson had been banned to the kitchen under Sherlock's request to "get himself and the rest of his pointless crew out of the room and find something useful to do."

"The cause of death was loss of blood due to bleeding, most likely from the gunshot in the abdomen," John began, making his analysis aloud. But Sherlock was far ahead of him.

_The man: white-collar job, judging by his white work shirt. However, the white shirt has extremely faded purple and brown stains along the cuffs: previous alcoholic that would spill the drink from his tumbler as he tried to drink and talk at the same time; reaffirmed by the number of old stains on the carpet by the coffee table and sofa. Dark smudge on the edge of his right ear is most likely gunpowder, popularly used in old-fashioned rifles. There is a rifle in the glass case by the mantle: the gun has been recently cleaned, but the glass itself is covered in fingerprints. Avid hunter, but only shoots when drunk. White wall directly above the mantle has a small hole showing from behind a mirror: one hole for one shot, but covered up purposely. Shift in the color of the wall: white plaster of a series of other holes, so this is not the only time it has ever happened, but the most recent. Most likely one year ago. Small nick on the neck from an old-fashioned razor: easily distracted, as the rest of his face shows no scarring from multiple cuts. Small cuts on finger from small blade, most likely a kitchen knife: cooks for family, but a poor cook indeed judging by the number of stains hidden on his black pants. _

"There appears to be no other major bodily concerns as of right now, but…" 

_The woman: housewife, judging by the clean nature of her wedding ring, which she pulls on and off for housework leaving the inside just as clean as the outside. Bruises along the neck line: Eric was abusive at one time. Faded color along the inner elbow of shirts: often rubbing at the main vein. Closer examination shows scars underneath clothes: previous drug addict. Clean, but often regrets choices._

"…except that I'm not really sure where Jeanine got all these burns from…"

Sherlock turned his attention to the bit that Watson just stated. _Well-manicured fingernails, but lighter burn marks all over the tips. Black lighter in back pocket, but no accompanying cigarettes on or near her. No cigarette trays either, but there is a box of matches on the far corner of the coffee table; a point of tension between the adults. Ends of hair towards the front area slightly melted: pyromaniac likely playing with fire as a compensation for not having drugs. It's worked though; no signs of relapse. It's most likely the reason her husband cooks the meals, though. However, her blouse is poised strangely…_

"…that's a medical view from just the outside; I'd need to get under their skin to see more. Well, Sherlock?" Watson ended, almost breaking his train of thought. 

"The man was an abusive alcoholic with an affinity for shooting guns; went to rehab and relapsed once since returning. The woman had a drug problem in her teens, but went to treatment and hasn't relapsed since she was sixteen. Replaced drug habit with pyromania," Sherlock simply stated while everyone stared in desperation.

"I was about to get to the woman's drug addiction," John continued after a short pause, "but how did you know everything else?"

"That doesn't matter right now," Sherlock said as he continued to stare at the dead couple. "There are lots of other things, but those are the most important."

"Why?" asked Lestrade.

"Because they describe the dysfunction of the parents, right Holmes?" Everyone turned to Anna, who bending over to inspect Eric's body. She looked up and saw everyone silently questioning her, to which she replied, "Every single one of the kids kidnapped twelve years ago had parents with something severely wrong with them. One had a prostitute mother, the other had an abusive father, and lots of them had alcoholic parents."

"Exactly," Sherlock replied.

"But how, then," John asked thoughtfully, "How in the world were they able to adopt a little girl? Surely the adoption agencies have people looking out for these things, right?"

Anna scoffed before moving towards Jeanine's cold body, her dark brown eyes turning a shade darker. "Does that matter? This couple had been relatively clean for at least the past two years. They probably got clean ten years ago; if that's the case, the state has no reason to deny them anything because they hid all the evidence of addiction and shined up their family portfolios. It's all about appearances, Watson; that's all that matters."

John was left speechless; it was a rather harsh conclusion to be deducted by an eighteen year old girl.

"I don't understand," Lestrade broke in, "Sherlock, if it was the parents that had the problems, why is there a little girl missing? I mean, neither of those things are connected; a little girl and her messed up parents. Kill the parents as punishment, but why take the child?"

Sherlock was about to answer that, but he glanced at the two dead faces and became silent. The two dead faces happened to be facing exactly the same way, almost identical. "What are they looking at?" he murmured, leaping over the sofa and behind their heads to match up his vision with theirs.

"Their last dying thoughts should have been each other and their bleeding stomachs or Clara, but instead they stare at a coffee-table book about Germany." With that, Sherlock leapt back over the sofa and grabbed the book, flipping through the pages while everyone watched in silence.

Donovan strode in the room, members of forensics parting for the tense detective. "Lestrade, sir, I have the adoption papers you requested."

"Go ahead," Lestrade ordered, never taking his eyes off Sherlock. Anna, however, jerked her head towards Sally.

"She was adopted from the Essex Orphanage when she was two. She was abandoned by her mother, who was a prostitute and a drug addict, and left in the state's care. Outside of that, there's nothing strange about her. I have the interviews and the court orders from the Blackstones right here. There's nothing peculiar about the girl or her situation."

"Wrong," Sherlock stated, pulling a playing card from the book. "Wrong, Donovan. This girl is in one of the most peculiar situations in the world." Between his fingers was the Doll Maker's calling card: the China doll on one side, and the type on the other._ Try and stop me, Sherlock Holmes: Two more to go_.

Sherlock handed the card to John, who squinted at it and then immediately looked back at Sherlock with surprise.

"How the hell did he know you were going to be here?"

"What?" Lestrade asked, as he read the card over John's shoulder. "Oh God, Sherlock, you don't think he remembers you?"

"Of course he remembers me," Sherlock spoke vaguely, returning his attention to the corpses on the sofa. "He's a fixated perfectionist. I ruined his last doll-attempt; there's no doubt he'll try and keep me from stopping him again."

"Stopped him?" John inquired. "Wait: you stopped him once?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, not very interested in answering questions at that moment as much as trying to decipher the phrase on the card.

"We found one little girl before the Doll Maker managed to kidnap her," Lestrade explained. "After that, he disappeared. Didn't you read the case file?"

"Yeah, but there was nothing on an actual survivor in there." John was very confused; he most definitely did not remember there being a surviving little girl.

"Curious," Sherlock sarcastically muttered under his breath, glancing up at Anna. Anna glared back; she was in no mood to have the truth out now. John's eyebrows tightened as he watched the interaction between those two: they knew something he didn't.

"What happened to her?" John asked.

"I don't know. The last I heard…" Lestrade delved before Sherlock began to mute him out of his attention.

His eyes once again caught Jeanine Blackstone's blouse. As he bent down and undid the bottom buttons, the forensics members gasped around at the scandalous action. Lestrade was about to intervene until he noticed marks. Sherlock stood up, visually taking in the spectacle and trying to deny the small grin of excitement about to build on his face. John's eyes widened in horror; Lestrade himself seemed to go into a momentary shock. And as Anna approached around the side of the couch, her face paled and she felt her heart beat faster.

The gun wound was on her lower abdomen, its mark seen as a blood-red hole that had corresponded with the stains on her blouse. However, it was what was above that that horrified the room into a silence. There were dark lines crossing the flesh on her mid-rift: deep, bloody gashes that were savage and slashed, cutting into each other. They formed disgusting words on her skin: _ad immortale facere._

"That," Anna said after a long period of silence, letting every syllable cut through the air, "is Latin: 'to make immortal.' That's why he takes the children, Lestrade, to free them. He thinks turning those children into dolls makes them immortal."

"He's made a mistake."


	10. Chapter 10: Drawing Blood

**Chapter 10: Drawing Blood **

"He's made a mistake."

Everyone turned to Sherlock, who could no longer hide that grin. "The Doll Maker made a mistake."

Tracing the cuts with his fingertips, Sherlock was sure of things now. "The varying depths of these words mean he used more than one knife, but they are all the same width, which means they were close to identical. The blade was pushed down and back rather than cutting through an angled-sliding motion, which means the handle was blunter than a regular kitchen knife. This was made by a company-sanctioned box-cutter, which is how he had more than one blade at such convenience.

"The first few cuts, seen in the _ad _there, have light fibers in them. I am more than willing to bet that those are rope fibers, the type found tying boxes together on shipping boats. In fact, I'm positive; I've seen them before. The first blade he used would most likely be the one he used most recently before the murder and the one he used on his job. The Doll Maker works for a sea-shipping company that is exclusively inter-UK shipping; that explains how he was able to kidnap so many children from so many places so easily."

There was a pause of disbelief: even though Sherlock had spelled everything out for them, it was hard to take in all at once. He stared back at everyone resolutely: how boring their little brains had to be, especially if they couldn't comprehend something that had quite literally been laid out at their feet.

"Amazing," John mumbled; he would never get over the precision or powers of observation his friend exhibited. Anna simply watched him with an intrigued gaze before returning her attention to the corpses on the sofa.

"Alright people," Lestrade announced to his team of detectives, "we are going to do a preliminary search, starting at every dock and shipping port within 20 miles of this house. If you see anything suspicious, report back to me. Get a move on, now!"

The crime scene burst back into life: detectives running out, forensics continuing their search for minute details, photographers running upstairs to record the blood splatters on the walls. Donovan whisked Lestrade away to begin one of the searches, leaving only John, Anna, and Sherlock remaining still.

"Anderson!" Sherlock called out impatiently as Anderson was packing his things up from the kitchen area he had been banished to. "Get me blood samples from these bodies and send them to St. Bard's."

"What?!" Anderson hollered in return; he was quite weary of whatever demands would be made of him next. He was beginning to wonder why he had even shown up at the Blackstone Residence: it was clear that the freak had forensics under control, making him feel more useless than ever. Really, he was still bitter from his banishment.

"I'll do it myself then," he replied under his breath, too bored to deal with the forensic idiot at the moment. Striding into the kitchen to grab needles and vials, Anna and John could hear Anderson's muffled dissent and Sherlock rummaging through the equipment boxes.

John stared at the grisly scene once more; the two bodies had left wide blotches of blood all over the sofa, and the grim phrase on the woman's stomach was unsettling to the army doctor. It wasn't the actual blood and gashes that gave him chills, though (he had seen enough of that in Afghanistan); it was the precision with which it was made. Perfect; every cut was perfect. There had to be an even amount of pressure in each stroke with absolutely no hesitations. It was the work of a cold-blooded killer. Sherlock was right about the Doll Maker: he was a perfectionist.

He turned his gaze to Anna, suddenly remembering the fact that there was an eighteen year old girl standing in the middle of a crime scene probably seeing the most blood she had ever seen in her entire lifetime. He began to feel pity for her, but stopped; there was something wrong. She was perfectly still. The gray light left only dark shadows on her face, which was stolid. She showed no emotions; there was no fear in her brown eyes or look of disgust on her dark lips. She only fixed her concentration on the woman's stomach. It was admirable, John thought to himself, how well she was holding up. He was just about to turn away and join Sherlock in the kitchen when his eyes were suddenly drawn to her hands.

Her left index finger was scratching against her thumb, drawing blood. The dark liquid was beginning to rust against the nail and drip slowly down the finger.

"Huntington, are you—" John began, taking a few steps towards her. As Anna looked up at him, he noticed she clenched her thumb inside a fist, immediately hiding any evidence of her self-mutilation. Her face never changed; it was still blank, but he knew she knew that he saw.

"I'm fine," she said quietly, making to walk away before Watson grabbed her left wrist.

"Hey, let me see," he said, the doctor-tone now in his voice. The first thing he noticed was how cold her hand was, as if she had been standing out in the fall air for too long. She slowly unclenched her fist and unfurled her fingers, never looking back at him. It was a minor cut that only left a brown stain against the palm of her hand and the index fingernail, but it was still alarming. There were scabs along the sides of some of the other fingers: recent scabs, but no long-term scars.

"It just needs a tissue." Anna was emotionless, seemingly unbothered by the state of her fingers. She pulled her hand out of his grasp and once again wrapped her thumb in a fist. "It'll be fine."

"It's stress, isn't it?" John asked patiently. He had seen this sort of thing in some of the soldiers he had come home with. It was a reaction to anxiety; it provided a release for anxiety. He had seen it manifested in many other ways, but there was no mistaking it; something was bothering her, and a lot by the look of the other scabs.

"I've had worse." Her voice refused to betray anything, her guard up as always. John almost laughed as he remembered the conversation he had had with this therapist so long ago: trust-issues. She had trust-issues, and he knew exactly how she felt. But there was something under that; she was hiding something. Something that Sherlock knew.

"Look," John began in a softer tone that made Anna glance at him suspiciously. "At least make sure you put antiseptic on that."

She pushed out a small laugh, trying to brush the comment off; she knew what he was trying to get across, even if it were only through medical terms. But comfort and support was not something she was interested in attaining from John.

"John," Sherlock demanded as he strode back into the kitchen, tossing a needle and a vial at Watson, "get a sample from the other body."

"Um, okay," he replied, pausing momentarily to process the demand before getting down on his knees and rolling up Eric Blackstone's sleeve. He had never taken blood from a dead man, but when it came to being friends with Sherlock, he had done a lot of things thought he would never do. "What exactly are we doing this for?"

"Blood analysis," Sherlock replied bluntly. "I need an uncontaminated sample to compare with later."

"What do you mean 'later'?" Watson asked.

"Clara," Anna spoke up. "He means when we find her body."

The grim nature of the situation returned as John remembered the stakes of the case; Clara was still missing. "Sherlock, Lestrade will find her. He has to."

"No, he won't," Sherlock replied, jerking the needle out of Jeanine's arm and twisting the cap on the dark vial. "The Doll Maker's too careful; wherever he's hiding, he won't be there long."

"But don't the children's bodies appear two weeks after their kidnapping? We have two weeks to find her."

"Normally, but he's not on that schedule anymore."

"What does that mean?" John asked, knowing he was obviously missing something. Sherlock gave a glance at Anna.

"It doesn't matter," Anna said, returning the look, "The Doll Maker said two more. He's never made direct contact before, much less with any detective on his case. The fact that he called Sherlock right out means he knows what he's doing this time. He wants to play a game with Sherlock. He's taunting us; he wants to watch us squirm, which means he won't wait to put that girl's body out."

"Sherlock," John pleaded as he finished taking Eric's blood, "is there nothing we can do for her? I mean, she's just a child."

"Unless he leaves us a hint, there's nothing we can do," Anna pointed out. "You saw the file; he never leaves anything behind. All we can do is wait and try to figure out where he'll stage her body."

Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent, pausing to look at Jeanine's stomach one more time. Abruptly, he got up to leave, turning his back on the crime scene and making his way through the narrow entrance hall. John couldn't help but give out a sigh; if Sherlock couldn't say anything on the subject, there was no hope for Clara. It was a grim prospect indeed. As he shifted his weight back to get up, a hand came into his peripheral.

"Thanks," Watson said, taking Anna's right hand.

"No problem," she said simply before turning to follow Sherlock. John laughed quietly to himself; that girl was a puzzle in herself.

What neither of them could see as they left the house and the crime scene behind them was the grim smile on Sherlock's face. He knew: the Doll Maker would be in his reach soon. He only had to wait.


	11. Chapter 11: Vulnerability

**Chapter 11: Vulnerability **

"Sherlock, it's two in the morning. Give it up already."

"No," he stubbornly replied.

That was the most John had gotten out of him all night; Sherlock was in one of those taciturn moods that occurred whenever there was a lull in a case. And to keep himself preoccupied, he had taken to pretty much living at St. Bard's, leaving the flat at 7 am and returning at ungodly hours. Even then, he would play the violin until 7 am the next day and simply leave again, maybe mumbling a word to John if he was awake.

That was how it had been for the last four days, and John, as always, was concerned. If it hadn't been for his job at the hospital, he would have accompanied Sherlock every moment. Sure Anna was with him, but John knew Sherlock would be working the girl to death. Aiding the great Sherlock Holmes while being expected to follow Lestrade's search teams had to be exhausting. So instead, he kept in contact with Molly during the day, making sure the eccentric detective had been eating (or, if there was a miracle, sleeping). But Molly, the poor woman, couldn't do much to force Sherlock to eat. At least she did report walking in on Sherlock sleeping in a small chair in the corner of the lab, but that was what had concerned him the most.

_Sherlock was vulnerable when he was alone_. John knew that statement wasn't entirely true; he was fully capable of fending for himself, but not when he was sleeping alone in a lab. It was the Doll Maker John was worried about: the Doll Maker obviously knew Sherlock was involved in the investigation. The direct message to Sherlock meant he was aware of his presence. There was no telling what he had the ability to do, especially since no one had any idea who he was or where he could possibly be. Despite Sherlock's gruff reassurances that the Doll Maker wouldn't risk anything by revealing his identity or attacking, John simply didn't want to take the risk. So there he was, at 2 in the morning, nodding off in the grim fluorescent lighting of the lab.

Sherlock finally turned off the microscope and tossed the slide into the trash bin, listening to the faint patter of rain outside. The blood of Eric and Jeanine Blackstone told him nothing except that Eric had a genetic disposition to high cholesterol and Jeanine was probably fighting a cold, and neither of that was relevant. He had exhausted all forms of analysis; there was absolutely nothing he could do until he got his hands on the compound. And the only way to do that was to find Clara.

Swiveling around on his stool, Sherlock turned to John only to find that he had fallen asleep with his head and arms on the smooth white lab counter. He gave a small laugh at John's attempts to protect him (despite all of John's protests and claims that he was actually "interested" in the lab work, he knew exactly what the doctor was thinking. Why else would he have shown up at the lab after yet another late shift at the hospital?) Although he knew of John's sentimentality and belief in friendship, there was a devotion that he could not logically comprehend but had come to simply accept. At the same time, he knew he would do anything to help Dr. Watson in return; a feeling that, although foreign at first, had now become second nature.

_Irrelevant, _he thought. Sherlock hopped up to sit on the lab counter, setting his feet on the stool and placing his elbows on his knees, letting his hands support his chin. He closed his eyes. _What's important is predicting what the Doll Maker intends to do with Clara. _

_The first thing to do: figure out what the Doll Maker will make her. _He blanked everything out of his mind, focusing on every popular childhood story. _Little girl with dark hair: Snow White- already taken. Adopted: Cinderella- already taken. Shift focus: the parents. Father enjoyed hunting: huntsman from—no, already taken. Both parents had pasts with substance abuse: something with poison or temptations—no, the Doll Maker wouldn't make this that complicated. This had to be something he would have seen the first time he saw the child. Father was abusive: Clara may have had bruises on her at some point. Mother was a housewife: if the Doll Maker saw her in a public place, he would have seen the child with her mother. Mother was a pyromaniac—played with fire. Fire: lighter in back pocket and matches on the coffee table. Matches: The Little Match Girl. _

There was a click as the door handle behind him was pushed down and a creak as someone tried to slip into the room unnoticed. "Huntington," he said, opening his eyes. "Tell me the story of the Little Match Girl."

There was a pause, and Anna gave a sigh of fatigue. "So you figured it out too?" she replied quietly, putting her backpack down on a chair.

Sherlock jerked his head up and twisted around. The young girl was drenched, dark hair clinging to a pale face. Her coat had turned a darker shade of blue around her shoulders, and as she slipped it off Sherlock noticed the same sort of color gradient on her black tank. The skin along her shoulders and upper arms was beginning to develop goose bumps, which she immediately covered with her hair when she noticed him watching her.

"He finally contacted you." It wasn't so much a question but a factual statement; Sherlock had expected to hear from the Doll Maker.

"Yeah, here," she pulled out the familiar playing card out of the coat pocket. Her thin arm reached out across the lab table, and he snatched it from her fingers.

"Took him long enough," he muttered before reading the inscription.

_You will find her in the home of the homeless, in the place that serves to separate yet joins, where it is dark in the light and light in the dark._

_There, she will see her desires. There, she will be freed. _

"Of course," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

"It's an alley," Anna vaguely remarked, justifying her own thoughts aloud. "Home of the homeless: obviously a place where the homeless will be found, but a place that even the cops can't bother them. Separates, yet joins: it separates different buildings, but can join parallel streets depending on where it is. Dark in the light and light in the dark: in the day, the buildings shadow the alley ways, but at night they are purposely the best lit by street lamps."

"Exactly," he replied. "Continue."

"There is only one fairy tale that involves an alley way and matches the second part of the riddle: the Little Match Girl, by Hans Christian Anderson.

"A little girl wasn't able to sell all the matches her fearsome father told her to, so she hid away in an alley and tried to warm herself with them. Each match she lit, she saw a vision of some grand wish or comfort, like a New Year's Feast or her dead grandmother. By the end, she froze to death, supposedly allowing her soul to be free."

"An abusive father and a pyromaniac mother, it all makes sense," Sherlock said as he stood up. He began to pace back and forth. "Now we just have to figure out where he'll put the body and when."

"How exactly are we supposed to do that?" she asked, slowly pulling a stool closer to her and finally sitting down after a long day. It wasn't that she was whining; she just had no idea how to go about searching every alley way in London.

"I have my network," he replied bluntly, only pausing for a second mentally to calculate how much he would have to pay to get them to talk. "As to when… How is Lestrade's search going?"

"He hasn't found much yet; most of the warehouses by docks were empty. The Doll Maker's probably not staying in one place too long if he knows you're part of the investigation; he can't be too careful. In short, we haven't found anything and we won't find anything for a while."

"If that's the case, he's not going to wait much longer. I give him two days at best."

"Two days; that's not enough time," Anna began.

"It's not soon enough," Sherlock interrupted. He stopped pacing and stared at her. "Clara will give us the key to the paralysis; if we have any chance of understanding him, we need that compound in her blood."

"A little girl's life is at stake, and that's all you care about?" Anna was getting tired, exhausted even, and Sherlock knew it. The strength that normally lay behind her eyes was fading.

"Stop arguing off your emotions," Sherlock admonished. "You of all people know what the stakes are, and you know that there must be a trade off if we are to catch him."

Anna's eyelids fluttered slightly. He was right, she knew he was right. His logic was the same argument she had made in her own mind for the last ten years. It was the fatigue talking for her, so she nodded at him once in agreement.

"What happened, Anna?" he asked, holding up the card. "It's two in the morning; the rain started at one, an hour ago, and you're soaking wet, beyond the point of a simple walk from your own flat, which means you've been wandering around for a while now. What happened?"

Anna remained silent for a while with the mixture of fatigue and sullenness. "I left you around two this afternoon to go help Lestrade with the searches; I'm still part of Scotland Yard's internship, remember. I got back to my own flat around midnight, and the card was already there on my doorstep."

"That was midnight; it shouldn't have taken you two hours to get to St. Bard's."

"I saw a shadow around the corner in the stairwell," she continued, "so I chased after it. I mean, who else could it be? I kept running for about twenty minutes before I lost him. Before I realized it, he had led me straight to your flat."

"Did you see what he looked like?" Sherlock asked.

"He purposely kept away from any source of light. All I can tell you is that he was about six-foot."

"Any signs of Clara?"

"No,"

"What are you doubting, Huntington?"

"Nothing."

"Come on."

"Sherlock," Anna said, "he knows where you live. He knows where I live. He knows everything about us, yet we know absolutely nothing about him."

"Are you saying you're scared of him?" It wasn't meant to be a mocking question, and Anna knew that.

"No," she replied with her usual defiance. "Not at all; he won't take me until he's dealt with the other children. He's a perfectionist; he's not going to stray from his schedule. He won't even try to touch me until the time is right. So until then, I have nothing to worry about. Once I realized where I was, I just needed to think. So I walked around the city a bit."

"No, you walked through the alley ways in the city. You were trying to see if he would pull anything on you," Sherlock pressed her.

"The grime on my boots?"

"You should have cleaned them off before you walked in if you didn't want me to notice."

"You're right; I guess I should have. I wanted to see if he was that desperate; I guess he's not. Taunting me around dark corners is enough for him right now. But really, it did give me some time to think a bit."

"And?" Sherlock asked, waiting to hear her conclusions.

"It's just that, I guess, um…" Sherlock looked up; it was the only time he had ever heard the girl falter or stutter.

Anna went silent, trying to formulate her ideas properly. Her eyes drifted down to the cool ceramic countertop. Sherlock stared at her, but she made her face blank so he couldn't read anything but fatigue.

"Sherlock," she whispered after a while, never looking up. "Don't lose."


	12. Chapter 12: Between Geniuses

**Chapter 12: Between Geniuses **

"Wake up."

John awoke to the aroma of hot coffee under his nose, only to groan at the stiffness in his back and neck. There was the discombobulating sense of waking up in a new environment, and his foggy vision wasn't helping anything. Everything was a strange gray and white color, glowing with an artificial luminescence, and he became aware of the fact that the slight weight along his arms was his coat. However, there was an unknown pressure on his shoulder that caused him to tense up immediately.

"Dr. Watson," the voice called out again, "Are you okay?"

He jerked up to see Anna Huntington peering down at him, her hand that had once been on his shoulder now paused mid-air for self-defense. Her wide eyes were just as distrusting as his were, and the two held each other's stares with the same angst. Once again, the same phrase flashed across his mind: trust-issues.

"Sorry," he said, trying to break the tension. "Reflex."

Anna smiled that grave smile she always did as she picked up the cup of coffee on the counter next to her and handed it to John, who gratefully accepted it. "That's okay, I understand." With that, she moved to the other side of the counter and looked through her backpack.

John yawned before looking around, remembering what had happened the night before. Feeling slightly ridiculous for having fallen asleep in the lab while trying to watch Sherlock, he gave a sigh. As usual, he had let his friend down. Not that Sherlock really needed him to begin with, but what was the point of being there if all he could do was fall asleep?

"Huntington," he called out, standing up to stretch his legs. She looked over her shoulder in response. "Where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know," she replied quietly. "I think I fell asleep around three, but when I woke up he was gone."

"When was that?"

"Six."

John's eyes widened. "And he still hasn't come back?"

"No," she said, finally zipping up the backpack and turning towards him. Her thin arms crossed in front of her waist. "It's only eight, though. I'm sure he's okay. He said something about a network last night, but he didn't really mention anything else."

John thought for a second before realizing: Sherlock was walking among the homeless now; it wouldn't be long before he returned. Somehow he trusted those beggars with his friend's life, because he felt some weight lifted from his shoulders. Huffing a sigh of relief, he sat back down on the stool and took a gulp of coffee. Anna grabbed her blue coat and gave a small wave as she moved towards the door.

"Anna, wait," he called out, causing her to freeze. She looked over her shoulder to see him, the dark braid hanging limply along her back (still damp from the night before). The black tank had only recently dried off, and Watson noticed her boots had recently been wiped clean. He noticed the make up around her brown eyes was darker: she had just applied another layer to try and look relatively refreshed.

"You fell asleep here?" he asked incredulously, only now recognizing the fact that she had gotten three hours of sleep.

"Yeah," she said, her hand releasing the door handle and the rest of her body turning to face him. "I got here late; you had already passed out."

"What were you doing here at such an ungodly hour?"

"Helping Sherlock." Her answer was so blatant, as if there were nothing else she would do at two in the morning. "We figured out a few things."

Anna caught John up as to what they had figured out the night before: the Little Match Girl and the alley ways, purposely leaving out the calling card and her own experiences. She couldn't believe she had expressed those moments of doubt to Sherlock, but she figured she could blame it on fatigue and move on. Besides, he would probably never bring up the subject again; he wasn't one to dwell on emotions.

"At least we have an idea of where he's going to be," he said, giving another of his sighs. "But we don't know any of the Doll Maker's motives?"

"Not really," she replied as best she could. Of course she knew his motive, she just couldn't say it.

"And Sherlock knows what he's doing?"

"I believe so."

"Where are you going now?"

"Back to Scotland Yard; Lestrade wants to have a case meeting, and it begins in an hour."

"After only three hours of sleep?"

"I don't see why not."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Dr. Watson," Anna said impatiently, "how much longer will you be questioning me?"

"When was the last time you ate?" John pressured again.

"Yesterday—"

"Liar," he broke in. Anna stared at him with defiance; at least she had regained enough energy to do that. John, however, could only break out into laughter, and he kept laughing as Anna's face clenched slightly in confusion.

"Come on Huntington," he said with a smile, shaking his head. "You're just as bad as Sherlock. You can't live on coffee; you need to take care of yourself."

"I'm perfectly fine," she said, taking a step towards the laughing doctor. "I know my limits."

"Do you now? It doesn't matter; I'm not letting you leave St. Bard's until you eat something."

"Lestrade's expecting me-"

"Lestrade can wait; I'm not letting you leave until you eat something."

"There's nothing to eat in the lab, Watson," she argued

"Then I will personally escort you to the cafeteria, where there seems to be a wide variety of edible things." John gave Anna the same look of defiance. "Look, if I have to force you to eat, I will."

Crossing her arms, Anna shrugged. "Alright then, doctor, you win." With that, John moved towards the door, only to crash into Sherlock.

"Nice to see you woke up, John," he stated with his usual bluntness. Pushing through to the counter, he nodded at Anna. "You seem well awake now too. Much more useful that way, if I may say so."

"Where have you been?" John asked, admonishing his friend as much as he could. He was just thankful to see him without any serious injuries or whatnots.

"Talking to my 'network'," Sherlock replied, removing his scarf before facing Watson and Anna. "I have homeless people stationed around every major, easily accessible alley way: the Doll Maker is too flamboyant to not leave Clara somewhere where a majority of people can find her. They know how to contact me. And," he added somewhat begrudgingly, "I texted Mycroft and had him focus all back-way security cameras on those areas."

"Who's Mycroft?" Anna whispered to John, picking up the obvious tension in Sherlock's voice.

"The entirety of the British government, as far as you're concerned," Sherlock remarked.

"His brother," John whispered back. Anna glanced at Sherlock, who glared back; she wasn't surprised at all that his brother would be the one running the country. She tried to envision Sherlock in a seat of power in the British government and restrained the sudden urge to giggle; Sherlock having government power would lead to an organized chaos that would probably end with him destroying his own government due to "boredom."

"Anna," Sherlock continued, "Don't say a word of this to Lestrade." Anna nodded; she understood. John made to question that judgment, but Sherlock already knew what he was going to say.

"If Lestrade sends his men to doubly patrol those alley ways, the Doll Maker will be less likely to make his move as quickly as we need him to. We need the Doll Maker to believe he has the upper hand; if the Yard continues to search the docks and warehouses, he'll have that as security. John," he stated clearly, "trust me. I know what I'm doing."

This time John nodded. Of course he always trusted Sherlock; there was never a question of that. He turned around to say something to Anna, but the door was already swinging shut behind him. She was gone.

"She's just like him," he muttered under his breath before turning to Sherlock.

"What did you say?" he replied, already starting to set up test tubes and chemicals.

"I said when was the last time you ate?"


	13. Chapter 13: Medical Conditions

**Chapter 13: Medical Conditions**

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He returned to the sofa in the flat, reminded of the fact that there was nothing of interest in that moment. He had been so close to forgetting his boredom within the confines of his own mental thoughts when John had broken through his meditation. He gave a sigh and tried closing his eyes once more, but was again interrupted.

"Sherlock, what are you—is that four patches on your arm?" John asked incredulously as he strode in from the kitchen with tea. "Four nicotine patches! Sherlock, what are you thinking? That could kill you," he admonished, reaching out and peeling one of them off.

"I'm bored," he whined. "I need stimulation. Argh, when is he going to make his move?" It had been two days already; it was only a matter of time before Clara should be showing up.

"You haven't heard anything from your network?" John inquired, handing over a cup of tea.

"Nothing in the slightest," he replied, grabbing it and placing it on his chest.

"Just be patient," John said, "they're bound to see something soon."

"They better," he muttered under his breath.

At that precise moment, Sherlock's phone rang from the table; a simple ringtone that made John's heart stop. With elegance and a unique precision, Sherlock bounced up, the teacup in one hand and the other snatching the phone. It only took him a second to read, but the excitement built up just as quickly.

He jumped onto his feet and ran for his coat. "John, they found her."

"What?" John asked, putting down his own cup and barely catching his own coat that Sherlock tossed at him. "They found Clara? Where?"

"Exactly where I said they would!" Sherlock hollered as he ran out the door, grappling his own phone.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Huntington," Lestrade said, "I think you should back off this case."

"I beg to differ, sir," she argued once more. They had been having this argument for the past ten minutes, and she was not about to back down now.

Lestrade leaned back into his chair; never had he felt the glass walls of his office to be so suffocating. It was the day for the intern case progress evaluations, so he sat and suffered through an endless pile of forensic evidence and presentations on what directions they would be taking next. To be honest, he found it all extremely boring. They all chose to reanalyze fingerprint data or blood samples, and they all led to suspects that had been dead for years already. In those presentations, Lestrade fancied he knew what Sherlock felt like all the time.

He had purposely saved Anna Huntington for last. He was excited to get her input on the Doll Maker's motives and her opinions on the evidence found at the most recent crime scene. She was an intelligent girl, and he found himself quite fond of her. And for any intern, that was an accomplishment. But when she entered the room, he was shocked. Her long hair hung limply around her face, and dark circles plagued her deep brown eyes. Her long limbs seemed even thinner than when he first met her, and the short skirt was on the verge of slipping off her waist.

She had come in and made her presentation with the same energy as always, and her logic was perfectly sound. Mentally, she was just as sharp as usual; but still, her body was exhausted, and Lestrade knew why. She was still assisting Sherlock, which probably took up every waking moment that his own investigation did not consume. Anna was working double time, and Lestrade could see that her body wouldn't last much longer.

But the moment he suggested her taking time off, she recoiled. "Not now, sir. Don't treat me like a child; I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Anna," she flinched slightly at hearing her first name from him. "Huntington, look at yourself; your body is wasting away. I'm not kicking you off the investigation; I'm just telling you to take a couple days off to sleep, and eat for Christ's sake."

"Every moment, the Doll Maker is getting closer to killing Clara," she rebelled. "We have to find him, sir. We both know what happens if we don't."

"But is this worth that much to you?"

"Yes," she replied with dead certainty, leaving Lestrade with the same chills as the first time he met her.

"Well, in my mind, it's not worth losing one of my best detectives—"

"Flattery won't work, sir," she interrupted.

"—one of my best potential detectives then. If I have to lock you in this office and force you to sleep, I will."

"That is highly irrational," was her only reply.

At that moment, two high pitched blurbs caused the two of them to cringe; both their phones rang at the same time. They looked at each other for a moment with wide eyes and whipped out their phones; they knew who it was from.

_Meet me in the back alley of L-St. Send an ambulance. Now. – SH_

"What does that mean?" Lestrade stuttered. "That can't mean what I think it means."

Anna had already grabbed her coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. "It means she's alive, sir. Clara's alive."

xxxxxxxxxx

By the time Anna and Lestrade reached L- St, a mob of photographers had swarmed both entrances of the alley way. As they pushed their way through, the onslaught of questions being shot at them made one thing very clear: someone had tipped the press.

They made their way to Sherlock, who was investigating the ground next to a small chalked ring. Face to the ground, he motioned for them to stand still and brushed the dust off a potential footprint. Finally, he pulled himself up and looked down at the two detectives staring questioningly at him. As Lestrade opened his mouth, Sherlock began to talk.

"To answer your first question, Lestrade, I was tipped off by one of the homeless people I set up around the area that Clara had been placed by the Doll Maker. That same person also said Clara had a pulse, which is why I ordered the ambulance. That's also why there is no little girl at this crime scene and this lovely chalk outline instead. Anderson!" he hollered

Anderson begrudgingly brought over Polaroid photos and slipped them into Lestrade's hand. It was of a little dark haired girl dressed in theatrical rags (complete with holes and ashes and smudges). Her back leaned against the brick wall as she sat with her knees huddled to her chest, her bare feet exposed. There were two used matches next to her body, and one hand held a brand new match in its clutches. But it was the perfect face that was the most chilling: there was the blank expression of death on the pale skin, with dark wide eyes peering at the last match in her hand. She looked like a doll; a perfect little doll. And, as always, there was the Doll Maker's calling card.

"John took Clara in the ambulance," Sherlock continued. "He's about to give her a full blood transplant. Don't worry, Anna, I'm having him save all of her original blood; we can analyze whatever compound he's been using now."

With that, Sherlock took one more look around before grabbing Anna by the arm and dragging her out of the alley with him. "No further comment, Lestrade. Your forensics can take it from here," he called out.

"What? Sherlock, are you sure?" Lestrade called back, quite unsure what to do next. There were still a lot of unanswered questions; including where the hell he was taking Anna.

"Absolutely; I have faith in you." And with that, they quickly moved away from the crime scene.

"What's going on Sherlock?" Anna asked when they were out of Lestrade's hearing range. She too had a lot of unanswered questions.

"Just come with me, Huntington," Sherlock whispered as they pushed their way through the reporters. Anna listened to each question they called towards them as they shoved recorders in their faces: "Who is the Doll Maker?" "What happened to Clara Blackstone?" "Why has he returned after 12 years?" "Why the Little Match Girl?" "Who will he take next?" Some of the reporters had large grins on their faces; this was their big story, their next big break. It made Anna sick.

Once they were walking away from the chaos of the crime scene and the lecherous reporters, Sherlock began to mumble something about 'the smaller details'.

"Why did the Doll Maker tip the press?" Anna asked.

Sherlock kept walking. "He wants the attention. Think about it; this is only the first part of his grand masterpiece. He remembers the horror others felt twelve years ago, and he wants them to be part of his greatest glory."

"I thought we established that lack of media attention wouldn't stop a psychopathic serial kidnapper."

"He's a perfectionist, and the press was a large part of his first reign of terror. He's probably looking for a way to recreate those first conditions; alert the press now of his return, and that guarantees their presence for his most important victim." Anna knew who he was talking about.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

"Lori, one of the girls in my network, said she saw the Doll Maker around eight this morning," he began. "However, she couldn't see his face; something about it being too dark in the alley itself, the foolish girl. The Doll Maker follows our general description: early-forties, six foot, 200 pounds but mostly of muscle. However, she noted something about him limping, which I find to be strange."

"Which was why you were analyzing the ground, right?" she corroborated.

"Precisely; his footprint is the exact same, but his right foot was at a more diagonal angle and wider than usual, leaving a dragged out pattern. He limps, but it's a recent thing; or so I thought. Mycroft texted me the security camera footage of him (face still missing, damn the quality), and it was a limp that didn't affect his ability to carry Clara over his shoulder. A recent limp should have changed his sense of balance, but it didn't."

"Which means it's a medical condition; something sporadic, yet chronic," she commented.

"Yes; but why does the Doll Maker have a limp that appears, disappears, and reappears; and how?"

"Psycho-somatic limp?" Anna ventured.

"No," Sherlock continued, "no, it can't be. A psycho-somatic limp would be much more continuous."

"What is it then?" she asked.

"No clue; I need more data."

"So where are we going?" she shook her way out of his grip and finally stood still, trying to process everything that had just happened. Her guide got a good three feet ahead before realizing she had stopped. Sherlock looked back at her patiently, hailing a cab as he waited for her to catch up.

"We are going to see Clara."


	14. Chapter 14: A Broken Doll

**Chapter 14: A Broken Doll **

"We cut it extremely close. She started taking to the blood, but she just—she just didn't make it."

Watson stood by the little girl's hospital bed, slightly adjusting the transfusion tube in her arm. Not that it mattered anymore. He couldn't look at his two companions waiting by the foot of the bed. He had just failed to save the little girl's life; he had been so close, so unbelievably close. It had been a grueling ambulance ride. Her heart almost stopped twice, but she held on long enough to get into the hospital. Halfway through the transfusion, though, her body just failed.

"We had gotten most of her old blood out, but whatever chemical was in her fluids had been absorbed by her muscles and organs," John continued. "The transfusion had been going pretty well; her body was accepting the blood, so that was a good start. But her major muscles and organs, heart and lungs and liver and kidneys, just froze up. I don't know what he put in her, but it works fast in the body. I'd say it's been in her for 24 hours at the most."

Clara's body lay limp on the white hospital bed. Long dark hair was strewn across the pillow. Her eyes had been closed. At first glance, she could have been a sleeping little girl. But she wasn't; the transfusion tubes in each arm served as a grim reminder of what she had gone through. The rags she wore seemed grimier against the white sheets, and the dirt that had stuck to her skin still clung to her. She was dead, now preserved as the Little Match Girl for the rest of eternity. She was dead.

John couldn't look at her any longer, so he closed his eyes. He had Clara's hand in his own. If only they had known where she was maybe an hour earlier, he thought but suddenly dashed it: the chemical had been absorbed in her muscles. She was probably doomed from five hours ago. Still, he felt the guilt that every doctor feels as they see their patient dead on the bed. So he inwardly grieved, grieved in his own doctorly way.

Anna held her blue coat in her arms, gazing at the girl with sympathy. She remembered lying on a hospital bed twelve years ago, and she especially remembered waking up to having no recollection as to what had happened and to the fact that both her parents were dead. But while that was hard enough, she wouldn't wish that on any other child. In that sense, perhaps it was better that Clara had died; she only suffered once. Although she knew that was the Doll Maker's justifications, it was his fault that she was even in that predicament. But it wasn't just his fault; it was her own as well.

"What were the preliminary findings on her body?" Anna asked, looking up at Watson with sad eyes. John was caught off-guard by the softness in her voice. "Did he do anything to her?" she pressured.

"There were some old bruises and some old burns on her arms that correspond to the faults of her parents, but outside of that there was nothing done to her in the past week." John shook his head. "There was nothing really…"

Sherlock blocked out John's voice. _Of course the Doll Maker didn't do anything to the girl, _he thought to himself. _He needed her in almost perfect condition; he wouldn't dream of damaging her body. _Brushing past Anna, he began to analyze Clara's body, mentally taking notes.

_Grime in the hair: bits of dust and dirt stuck to hairspray. Dirt most likely came from whatever was in the alley way, but the dust is in larger particles: most likely from an unused warehouse, which means the Doll Maker preset her hair and makeup before staging the body; meticulous as usual. _

_Deeper shades of skin up and down along the arm: healing bruises and burns, but most likely from her parents. However, there is one lighter shade of skin along her upper right arm the size of a bandage: probably where he injected the first part of some chemical in her. The only way to get a five year old girl to comply with this would be to play the role of doctor. Looking at her fingernails, there are no skin cells: she didn't struggle against him. He was able to gain her trust, but how? _

_Breath smells like…sugar. Her tongue has been dyed a slightly red color: probably a cherry-flavor sucker. That's how he gains their trust: candy. How utterly simple-minded children can be._

_Feet: covered in the same sort of dust particles as in her hair. She was allowed to walk around the warehouse. At first glance, there are about five different types of particles: indicates more than one warehouse has had contact with her feet. The Doll Maker has been moving locations frequently. Indicates that she was never bound and she was able to move the majority of the locations: the paralysis compound was not put in her until the very last location. _

_Dress is made out of cotton. The dirt stains follow a pattern: he most likely twisted the cotton and rolled it around in dirt to get the "ragged" look. Cloth made in the United States: probably imported in through one of the shipping boats he worked at. A common enough fabric that means it is untraceable. It's baggy around the body: probably a pre-meditated choice. However, there is a strange angular shape along the right breast…_

Sherlock reached out and brushed the edge of the shape, deepening a crease along it. There was something thin underneath the fabric. Anna and John watched in wonder as Sherlock nimbly unpinned a playing card from the inside of the dark tunic. He stared at it for a moment, than let out a single sound.

"Sherlock," John quietly commented, "What does it say?"

"Look for yourself," he replied, passing the card to Anna. John read it over her shoulder.

_You have what you need: now come find me. One to go: can you save Her, Holmes? _

Anna glanced up at Sherlock, who was watching her with a dark look in his eyes. They both knew what the Doll Maker meant by "Her." Everything had become a game, and it was Anna's life that was being wagered.

"I get what he means by 'what you need.'" John said. "You've got the blood compound you've been waiting for now. But I don't understand that last part. Who does he mean by 'Her'?"

"That is irrelevant right now," Sherlock said bluntly as Anna tore her eye contact away from him. "When can I have the blood?"

"What do you mean that's 'irrelevant'?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, this is insinuating he already has the next child. This needs to be addressed now."

"No, it doesn't, John. Think about it; there haven't been any double murders recently. The Doll Maker won't grab another child for paralysis until he goes through the ritual. We'll get more done if we find out what he's been pumping through Clara's veins."

"But if he already knows who he's going to kidnap, there has got to be a way to stop him. If we can prevent the next kidnapping and catch him, we can—"

"We can what?" Sherlock spat. "He will kill again; we can't stop him."

"Isn't there anything on Clara's body that tells us anything about him?"

"No, John, he is much too careful for that," Sherlock put the card in his pocket and stared hard at Anna and Watson. "He will tell us when he's got the next child. Until then, we have no choice but to wait. But this blood; this blood will tell us everything. This is what's important right now; this is what will save that next child."

Watson was about to continue arguing, but Anna's voice stopped him. "John," she said absently; her mind was somewhere else, deep in thought. She simply watched Clara as she said, "He's right; there's nothing else we can do right now. Obviously a simple blood transfusion won't work; I'm sure he planned it that way, timed it out so we wouldn't be able to save her so easily. Still, the Doll Maker left us with something huge. If we can identify what he's put in Clara's blood, we might be able to combat it for the next child."

John looked at her; she looked so tired, so incredibly tired. He wanted to reach out and simply hold her, but she looked up with that hard look in her eyes. That strength, that defiance that always was there continued on, and that gave John hope.

Sherlock walked towards the door. "Send the blood to the lab when it's ready," he called out.

"It's already there," John said, following Sherlock out. "I had a bag sent down ten minutes ago."

But Sherlock was already striding down the hall, his coat flowing out behind him. "Anna," he paused and turned around, "go to my flat and grab my medical volumes on blood and muscular tissue." He tossed her a silver key. "You know where they are."

She nodded and slipped her blue coat on before turning around to make her own exit.

"Come, Watson," Sherlock called. Leaving John lagging slightly behind him, a look of stolid determination flashed across his face. This was what he had been waiting for; this was the missing piece of the puzzle. He was about to figure out what the Doll Maker's process was all about.

"Sherlock," John said, somewhat confused, "you don't need those volumes; you practically have them memorized."

"Of course," he replied. "But of course." And with that, he went silent, leaving John to only imagine what he had really intended for Anna to do. Whatever it was, it was obviously a private matter; something that was only meant to between Sherlock and the girl or else he would have sent John to fetch those volumes. A look of deep thought filled John's face, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice, too enveloped in thoughts of his own.

_I will find you, _Sherlock thought to himself. _I'll win your silly little game, Doll Maker. _


	15. Chapter 15: It's Only Natural

**Chapter 15: It's Only Natural **

"Sherlock, you better answer some questions for me."

John looked up to see Lestrade standing in the doorway. The detective and the doctor had been in the lab for the past three or four hours, and it was already 10 pm. The first packet of Clara's blood had already been divided into ten or fifteen small vials, some of which were put into a centrifuge and others of which were being pipetted onto a slide for Sherlock's microscope. Plenty of different indicator bottles were strewn across the white lab counter, and there were blood-stained pieces of cloth littering the floor. Obviously somewhere in the chaos was the answer of the paralysis of the children and the Doll Maker's madness, but that wasn't Lestrade's question.

"Hello, Lestrade," Sherlock said, never even looking up from his microscope. "I take it everything has been going well at the Yard?"

"To hell it is," Lestrade responded angrily. "You have a lot of explaining to do, Holmes."

"What's wrong?" John asked. He had just finished setting a batch of vials in the centrifuge and was removing the gloves from his hands. As the centrifuge started humming, Lestrade had to raise his voice to be heard.

"Sherlock pretty much abandoned the crime scene without so much as even a hint as to how he knew where the body was, or explaining anything he found at the scene." Lestrade was obviously frustrated, so John decided to keep out of the argument. However, he did keep an ear open; Sherlock hadn't explained things to him yet either.

"I told you, Lestrade," Sherlock replied dully, making it very clear his research was much more interesting than explaining his methods. "A homeless person I paid to stand by the alley—"

"How in God's name did you know that the Doll Maker would put Clara in an alley?"

"Outside source."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lestrade hollered, "Why wasn't I notified about this 'outside source'?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, finally removing the slide he was working on and glancing at the boiling detective. He pulled a card out of his pocket and let Lestrade read it "Is it really that surprising that the Doll Maker has been leaving me hints? We established this; part of his game is retribution against me. But he'll only accept that if he feels that he's given me an advantage: ergo, the hints."

"Where did he leave them?"

"On the front door of our flat."

"Wait," John interrupted, "When did the Doll Maker leave these 'hints'? I don't remember seeing those cards at the flat."

"It wasn't something you needed to know at the moment, John," he replied. "Don't worry, Lestrade; he won't do anything to either of us. His plan is too diabolical; violence is not his style."

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, "you have got to keep me informed on these things. Please; I'm not just here for your beck and call. I can help you, but only if you give me an opportunity. John, you've still got your gun, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "And I got Sherlock one as well." It was a precautionary measure John had taken once he had returned from his false suicide. Although Sherlock protested at first, he had taken to shooting the thing at the wall as a release from boredom and stopped complaining.

"That's fine. I'll have a squad car patrol your street as well."

"No!" Sherlock protested. "If we threaten the Doll Maker in the slightest, he won't risk coming around the flat. We need those cards, Lestrade, they give us an advantage; I am telling you, Watson and I will be perfectly fine."

Lestrade stared at him in silence before reluctantly nodding his head. "Alright, Sherlock, but I need you to promise me that you'll update me on these things. I need those hints just as much as you do."

"I am aware," Sherlock mumbled as he slid another slide under the microscope. "If that's all you have to say, let me get back to work."

"Fine," Lestrade grumbled, realizing he probably wouldn't get very much out of Sherlock that night. "Do me a favor and write out all your observations from the alley way; I know you saw a lot more than you're letting on. I'd appreciate having something to work with as well."

"I'll make sure he does that," John intervened. Lestrade gave a curt nod before getting up. Just as he put his hand on the door handle, he paused. A secondary thought had slipped into the inspector's head, and he wasn't really sure if it was something he should say aloud. But an image popped in his mind; the thinning young girl reappeared.

"One more thing," he said, softening a bit, "take care of Anna."

"Your sensitivity," Sherlock said in a hard voice, "is not what she wants, Lestrade. She deserves a lot more than that."

Lestrade nodded in understanding; of course Sherlock was right. Anna was an intelligent young girl, but above all that she was an intern at Scotland Yard. His thoughts about her should have been restrained to a professional level. He should have thought about her like any other intern: with annoyance and reluctance. But there was something unique about her; maybe it was her youth or her determined rebellion. Perhaps it was the fact that she reminded him of his own daughter Caroline. Whatever it was, Sherlock was right; Anna wasn't Caroline, and she shouldn't be treated that way. But somehow, it was only natural.

He gave a loose salute towards the other men and pulled the door open, only to bump into Anna, who was pushing the door open at the same moment. She took in a sharp breath and dropped three large volumes on the floor.

"Sir," Anna said, staring at him with wide eyes. "I am so sorry."

Lestrade stared back in mild surprise before he bent down in to pick up the volumes. She still looked thin, but at least she didn't look as extremely tired as she did that morning. She had also changed out of her skirt into a better fitting pair of jeans, making her body seem less thin. What he failed to notice, which Sherlock observed the moment she stepped in the lab, was that she had also applied another coat of make up while she was out; only enough to cover up the extreme nature of her dark circles.

"Don't worry about it, Huntington," he gave her a smile as he handed the volumes back to her. But thinking back to the conversation he had just had with Sherlock, he let the smile fade away and replaced it with a look of simple professionalism. Giving her a small nod of approval, they said good night, Anna shutting the door to the sound of Lestrade's footsteps going down the hall.

"Sorry it took me so long," she said, letting her backpack slip off her shoulder onto a chair in the corner of the lab before removing her blue coat. "I stopped by my own flat and grabbed a few things. But I believe I got what you asked for, Sherlock."

John greeted her with a wave as he switched out a batch of vials from the centrifuge. Sherlock said nothing at all; he only gave her a curious glance as Anna made her way towards the lab counter. As John set the centrifuge and the loud humming began to fill the lab, Sherlock grabbed Anna's left wrist, pausing to note the new beads of blood along the edges of her fingernails.

"What did _he_ leave at your flat?" he whispered.

"This," she whispered in return, slipping her right hand into the back pocket of her jeans and pulling out a card. Knowing John might look over at any second, she quickly laid it flat on the lab surface. Sherlock released her wrist, and she made her way over to the centrifuge to distract John while Sherlock read the card.

_Your Time is Running Out. _

Slightly disappointed at the lack of better clues; it was only a scare tactic. Sherlock slipped the card into his own pocket; there was no point in letting John see it. He would only misinterpret its meaning. Instead, Sherlock returned to the microscope.

John reached out and turned off the centrifuge, once again returning the lab to its normal state of quiet. As he pulled out the vials, he surveyed the room; Anna was leaning against the center table in the lab, reading over the computer's initial analysis of the blood. She had tied her hair back into a low bun, using a pencil to hold the mass of hair together; however, that didn't stop pieces of loose hair from straggling onto the side of her face. Sherlock sat at the opposite end of the table, staring into the microscope with the utmost concentration, only occasionally stopping to draw something on a yellow note pad: chemical Lewis structures and reactions. Watson knew he was taking a huge amount of notes mentally, though. It was a strange sight: a genius teenage girl and a dark sociopath doing lab research together.

However, Anna broke the soft silence in the room. "Dr. Watson, Sherlock, take a look at this. Why are Clara's calcium levels so high?"

Sherlock remained still, so Watson walked over to Anna and looked at the chart. "That's impossible," he replied. "These levels shouldn't be physically possible in a six year old girl, or anyone in that matter."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, still not looking away from his microscope.

"Her calcium levels are nearly six times what her body could naturally produce, nor is this any amount that a calcium supplement could put into her bloodstream. I mean, I've heard of hypercalcemia, in which the body produces too much calcium, but the most that causes are twitches. " John stated. At that comment, though, Sherlock's ears perked up.

"Calcium," Sherlock mumbled. Then his eyes widened. "Yes, yes, how could I miss that?" With that, he jumped off his stool and ran over to the shelves behind him. Scanning through the bottles, he pulled out a specific one: ADP inhibitor.

"The Doll Maker is smart," Sherlock continued, "Forensics couldn't identify any chemical in the children twelve years ago because we were only testing for manmade compounds."

"Are you saying that the Doll Maker is injecting _natural_ chemicals in the children?" Anna asked, reaching towards the medical volumes. "Natural compounds shouldn't be able to cause paralysis like this."

"No, it makes sense, actually," John intervened. "That would explain how the chemical was absorbed by her muscles and organs so quickly. It took less than 24 hours, Huntington. It's rare that any manmade chemical will have such a quick absorption rate because the body doesn't recognize the compound as a hormone naturally produced in the endocrine system. The only way that would be possible would be if there were enzymes attached to the compound that sped up its acceptance by the body. But if that were the case, there would be a jump in the foreign-enzyme levels. There isn't; it's only a jump in calcium." Anna looked at the two of them, still somewhat lost.

"What about the rise of antibodies in the blood?"

"It can't be because of an enzyme; the analysis would have shown a specific lymphocyte that corresponds to foreign enzymes. Whatever is causing the rise in antibodies would probably have been caused by a different injection altogether."

Sherlock thought silently before waving them away. "Get out; I need space to think." With that, John and Anna made their way out of the lab, taking one last look at the sociopath pipetting more and more chemicals onto the slides, each movement more excited than the last.

"Calcium," Sherlock mumbled under his breath as the door finally shut. "Why didn't I think of that before?"

Outside the door, John and Anna stood trying to figure out what to do next. Having been abolished from the lab for the next few hours, John sighed. This usually happened when it came to heavy cases like this.

It was only 11 pm, and Watson knew Sherlock wouldn't leave the lair until well into the morning, maybe even later. There was always the option of going back to 221B Baker St. to get some sleep, but John still didn't want to leave Sherlock alone at St. Bard's; the reminder of how close the Doll Maker was getting to his friend made him uncomfortable. If only there was some other form of research he could do for his friend.

Lost in his own thoughts, he had barely noticed that Anna had slid down the wall and was sitting on her blue coat on the floor. She had settled one of the medical volumes on her knees and was flipping through.

"Which one is that?" John asked, looking over the tiny print in the enormous volume.

"Blood and blood disorders," she replied, never looking up from the text. "If I'm stuck out here, I might as well do something useful."

John skewed his head in agreement and picked up the other volume. "Well then," he said. "Let's get started. I take it that the key markers are—"

"Only natural," Anna completed.


	16. Chapter 16: Distractions

**Chapter 16: Distractions **

"Wake up—wake up—JOHN!"

John jolted awake at the familiar voice. His back and neck were stiff, and he cringed his rude awakening. Again his vision was blurred by the artificial luminescence of the hallway lighting. Feeling around himself to reorient his body, John felt the cold tile floor under his palms; he had fallen asleep on the floor in the hallway outside the lab. There was a weight in his lap: the large red medical volume on muscles was still open.

"Sherlock," John mumbled, stumbling to get up off the cold floor, "what time is it? Where's Anna?"

"That's not important," Sherlock said, clearly agitated. Or excited; John wasn't really sure which in his muddled up state. "Come on, Watson, we've got to get going." He pulled his partner up with a hand, and then handed him his coat.

"Wait, Sherlock, just give me a moment," Watson replied somewhat moodily as he stretched his limbs and neck. But memories of the night before flooded into his mind: blood and calcium.

"Sherlock, did you figure it out?"

"What?" Something was clearly distracting the detective.

"The blood: the unknown compound in the blood."

"Oh, I have my suspicions," Sherlock replied hastily, "But it's unimportant right now. Hurry up, John."

"It's unimportant?" John answered incredulously. "For Christ's sake, Anna and I spent all night out here, and you're saying that what the two of you have been saying is the key to this whole Doll Maker business is unimporta—"

"John!" Sherlock yelled out, becoming frustrated with his friend's lack of understanding in the moment. Watson stared at him in mild surprise; there was definitely something bothering him. Or exciting him; he still couldn't tell which. "Check your phone," he continued bluntly.

Watson patted at his coat pockets (he had left his coat in the lab when Sherlock had banished him and had consequently been isolated from the world of communication). He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the home key twice: _New Message._

Looking up with wide eyes, John could already tell what had happened. It hadn't even been 24 hours since they found Clara; it seemed too soon for the Doll Maker to have made a move. John felt his stomach drop; every time he felt he had seen the worse of what could possibly happen, the madman proved him wrong. Sherlock gave him a look of impatience. "Go on, read it."

_356 S—Ave. Double murder and missing child. Doll Maker. Get down here now- Lestrade_

xxxxxxxxxx

"Gary and Jillian Bolstead, married ten years," Lestrade said as he led John and Sherlock through the front entrance of the house. It was an abnormally bright fall day, and the light streaked through the high windows in the living room, casting a beam of golden light on the dead bodies. Sherlock surveyed the room quickly before moving towards the victims that had been strewn out on the sofa.

"They were found dead on their living room sofa. Cause of death, as usual, appears to be loss of blood due to identical gunshot wounds to the abdomen area. There are blood splatters upstairs that prove the actual shooting took place in the bedroom. The only thing that seems different about the body at first glance is a strange cut that circles both of their wrists, inflicted while they were still alive. They had one daughter, Natasha, age seven. I'm sure you can guess what's happened to her." Lestrade handed them both a school photo of her; a dark haired small girl with pale blue eyes that pierced through her fair skin.

"No signs of force used on the child anywhere, but we all know this was a kidnapping," Lestrade sighed; this whole thing was becoming a broken-record analysis, and that frightened him. But not in the traditional sense of fear: a fear that lingered in the back of his mind, clinging under every photo. How many more times would he have to say the same things? How many more times would the Doll Maker strike before they could catch him?

"There is evidence that the Doll Maker broke in through the back door using force. The next door neighbor reports waking up at 3 am to the sound of two gunshots, and then witnessing the kidnapper leaving through the front door of the house with a child thirty minutes later. The neighbor didn't report this until this morning, though, because she's an old woman with hearing loss who thought she had hallucinated the whole thing. Anyways, the only thing left here is the calling card, which was in Jillian's hands when the preliminary investigators got here."

"Did the woman report seeing the suspect limp at all?" Anna asked behind Lestrade. John jumped a little at the sound of her voice; he hadn't seen her come into the crime scene. She looked better than the night before; she had changed into a pair of maroon jeans and a black turtle neck that fit her more snug than most of her clothes, giving her the illusion of better health. Under the blue coat, she looked fairly normal. Even Lestrade gave a sigh of relief at this new image. But again, this was only an illusion.

"No," Lestrade said, "there was nothing in her testimony about that. In fact, the suspect was described as a large man with 'a deep stride.' Why does it matter, Huntington?"

"No reason," Anna replied. "Just wondering."

"Besides," Sherlock interrupted, "look at the footprints; there's nothing, no drag pattern, indicating a limp. Think, Huntington." With that, he returned to deep silence and analyzation. Lestrade passed a set of photos of the family to Anna, and John began to scan the body for any medical anomalies.

Anna only quickly scanned the photos: she knew what she was looking for, and this time it was quite obvious. "Natasha was adopted," she said aloud, although she figured it would be just as obvious to everyone else: a blue-eyed child from a large family of brown-eyed members wasn't genetically likely. "Has someone found the adoption files yet?"

"Way ahead of you there, Huntington" Donovan said with a snarky tone; she still didn't like the intern who showed up at every crime scene for such an important, now highly publicized, case, much less a girl who was getting favoritism from Lestrade and following Sherlock around. She shoved Anna's shoulder as she bypassed her to hand the file directly to Lestrade. "Both her real parents died in a car crash when she was three. She was assigned to the Essex Orphanage by the state, and adopted by the Bolsteads six months later."

"Essex Orphanage," John muttered under his breath, looking up at Sherlock. "That's not the first time I've heard that. Sherlock, there's got to be a connection, hasn't there?" But Sherlock remained silent; he was thinking, and there was nothing Watson could do to bring him out of that thinking mode.

"Well, outside of the cut that traces the circumference of their wrists," John continued, "there doesn't appear to be anything physically wrong with them that the Doll Maker didn't do himself."

_The woman: _Sherlock observed, _nothing unusual at first sight. Long hair with a singular curve towards the nape: ties hair back often in the same area. Dry hands with marker stains: most likely from washing dishes and "artistic time" with daughter; corresponds with pink ink stain on her cheek. Matching gold earrings and necklace: thin gold plating, fake red and green jewels, and elephant figures: obviously a tourist gift from India. Clean wedding ring, but recent fingerprints along the outside: devoted housewife, but is concerned about marriage. Twists the wedding ring, but never removes it: concern about husband's work rather than fidelity. Looser right pocket and excess oil on right index fingertip: checks smartphone often and picks up oil from the initial start screen, but never goes beyond that. In short: normal housewife with strange devotion to a husband who is doing something to worry her. _

_The man: white shirt and black pants suggests an informal business man. Thin black suit jacket at the door, but not a heavier coat: it's autumn: spends time in warmer climate, obviously outside London. Slightly darker shade of skin around neck and wrist area: definitely not around London, but abroad. Shirt is wrinkled slightly around the chest area: it was re-buttoned after he was shot, probably by the Doll Maker. I'll come back to that… Check his wallet: Indian currency: didn't bother to exchange it at the airport, meaning he travels there often. No business cards in the wallet or on his person: not a traditional business man, but this house is much too nice for someone unemployed. Has photo of daughter and wife hidden under his credit card: family sentiment. Check phone: locked: family sentiment means password is most likely: NATASHA. E-mails in code: lots of numbers, lots of letters, but I've seen these before… area codes in India. Starting areas are the slums; ending areas are of the wealthy elite: this is some sort of trade guide. An illegal trade, judging by the intense secrecy of these messages. Bitten lips and ragged nails: intense stress, so this was a trade he doesn't want to be part of. What was he trading, though? Think: it has to be somewhere on him… Skin under the wedding ring is tan, but the ring itself is well-cared for: takes off wedding ring while in India. Photos of family hidden under the credit cards: he's a family man, yet he doesn't want that to be seen. Think— _

"Sherlock," a voice interrupted. Sherlock broke from the reverie: John was more observant than usual, because he had noticed the same thing. He had unbuttoned the front of the man's damp white shirt and exposed the chest. Everyone in the room stared; another gory act by a madman. Above the gruesome bullet hole, there were deep slashes in perpendicular lines, forming words.

_This man sold himself to the Devil. _

"The wife," Sherlock said, seemingly unaffected by the unsettling sight, "is a normal housewife. The husband is a sex trafficker, specializing in the India trade area."

Lestrade, Anna, and John all stared at Sherlock, shocked at the severity of that claim. He didn't even wait to be asked how he came to those conclusions before continuing. "Why India, I'm sure is obvious. It was his phone: his cell phone contains codified messages and e-mails concerning where and when to move the woman. Judging by the pattern, the girls were being sold for sex to the highest bidder; he was the middle man of all this."

"'He sold himself to the Devil.' What does that mean?" Lestrade asked.

"It means he was forced into the business, and the Doll Maker found out about this. He's a smart man; I'm sure he easily hacked into Gary's phone and read the messages himself. He's probably been watching the house for weeks, maybe months, now; that conclusion is pretty easy to reach with simple observation."

"For someone like you, Freak," Donovan snapped. Lestrade shot her a dark look, but this time she rebelled. "Look, I don't understand what the point of analyzing the life stories of these victims is. There is a little girl missing; our attentions should be focused on finding her. We were lucky just to find Clara—"

"It was knowing the life stories of Clara's parents that allowed us to find her where we did when we did," Anna said coldly, staring Donovan down. "You don't get it, do you Donovan? Everything matters when it comes to the Doll Maker. You can't find the girl unless you can get inside his head."

"Stay out of this, Huntington," Donovan warned. "It doesn't matter what his motives are; he's insane. He's a psychopath bent on some sick rampage, and you're telling me that the method behind his madness will lead us to the girl? Sure it will, but not soon enough to save her. You don't know what you're doing, Huntington, listening to Sherlock; you're just a child."

John was about to step in and pull Anna back; Donovan was just asking for an argument, and she seemed perfectly obliged to respond. Everyone in the room was extremely tense; it was only a matter of time before a screaming match began. But John stopped; he saw something.

"You're calling _me_ a child, Donovan?" Anna's voice started quietly, but it built up slowly to frightening levels. "You think you're better than me, don't you? You are nothing like me; you are nowhere near me. At least I can keep up with Sherlock; you can't even begin to comprehend his ideas. I can see it in your eyes; you have no idea how he does it, and it scares you. It scares you only because it reminds you of how incompetent you have always been: to your parents, to your partners, to everyone. You call yourself a detective? You are pathetic, Donovan, absolutely pathetic."

With that, Donovan's right hand reached out and slapped Anna's cheek. Anna paused for a second, processing the pain with a faint grimace. Then, with a small growl, she lunged back at her. Lestrade grabbed Anna, holding her arms behind her back. Donovan made to hit Anna again, but Anderson restrained her. The two women struggled against their restraints; the hostility was burning in both of their brown eyes.

"That's enough, both of you," Lestrade yelled. "Donovan, Huntington, stop this immediately, or I will take you both off this case."

Anna stopped and let her arms go limp. Lestrade released her, and the entire room stared at her, mumbling. She was a wild child, going mad, something of the sort. Anna looked around at all of them and simply walked out of the crime scene in silence, giving one last cold stare to Donovan, one that left chills in her spine.

This was exactly what Lestrade had been afraid of: she had finally snapped. The exhaustion must have finally gotten to her, and she just broke down. He sighed. "You didn't have to provoke her, Sally," he said quietly before addressing the rest of the room. "Move along; collect all the evidence and get moving. I want a report on this crime scene on my desk in two hours."

John replayed the moments before the fight back in his mind; he had seen something, something that had held him back. Anna's eyes, in perfect calmness, had glanced towards Sherlock. In a split second, she had communicated something to him, a sort of understanding or signal, before turning back to Donovan with nothing but anger in those same eyes. John turned to look at Sherlock, who was slipping something into his pocket. That's what that was: a distraction. Anna had distracted the room so Sherlock could take something from the body, something that both of them had expected but neither of them wanted anyone else to see.

Sherlock made his way to the door. "I'll find you later, yeah?" the Detective Inspector called out. "I'll stop by the lab in a couple hours."

"No need," Sherlock replied, "we'll be back at the flat. You know how to contact me, Lestrade." With that, he simply stepped out the door and made his way towards a cab. John nodded once to Lestrade, who suddenly looked extremely tired in the afternoon light, and jogged to meet Sherlock in the cab.

Once the cabbie had started moving, John felt a strange awkwardness in the air. Sherlock was thinking, and John wasn't a mind-reader. Whatever it was, it left a hazy air of uncertainty. Trying to ease whatever was causing it, John started asking questions.

"Why are we going back to the flat?"

"Because I'm bored of this crime scene," Sherlock replied.

"Why aren't we going back to St. Bard's?"

"Nothing to do there."

"Wait, what about the blood?"

"I told you; already got what I needed from it."

"Wait, what?"

"Just a suspicion, nothing solid; are you done asking questions yet, John? Get to your point."

"Sherlock," he said quietly, "I saw what happened. I saw what you and Anna did in there. What did you take off the body?"

Sherlock never looked away from the window; he simply reached into his pocket and handed John a playing card. The words immediately sent chills up his spine.

_An Eye for an Eye, a Tooth for a Tooth; a Life for a Life, a Truth for the Truth. Time is Running Out, Sherlock Holmes. _


	17. Chapter 17: Bedtime Stories

**Chapter 17: Bedtime Stories **

"Good night, dear. Sleep tight, and don't let the bed bugs bite."

Lestrade tucked his children in bed; it had been five days since they had seen their father, and the Detective Inspector felt a bit of guilt. Although he knew his wife told them he was sorry, she was bitter towards his lack of presence when it came to a case and the feeling that she was less important than his work, which was why their marriage was in trouble (and why she had gotten into that affair with the gym teacher). Of course, Sherlock had to point all this out for him; he just wasn't home enough to keep in touch with personal matters. It took a sociopath a second to see what a normal man remained blind to. At any rate, it was the first time Lestrade had a chance to see his children awake. Although his youngest daughter, Caroline, had begged him to read a fairy-tale, he couldn't bring himself to oblige her. He just couldn't.

He heard the doorbell ring just as he kissed Caroline's head and turned off the light. He heard his wife open the door and was just coming down the hall to see who it was. As he went through the living room, he grabbed his gun out of his work drawer. Someone knocking on the door at 10:00 pm was unusual; if anyone really needed him, they would have texted him. He had no idea who could possibly be at that door, and it gave him a cause for concern. He felt slightly ridiculous for grabbing his gun that night, but the sight of Gary and Jillian Bolstead's dead bodies once again flashed into his mind. Yes, he was being paranoid, but there was no such thing as being too paranoid when it came to the Doll Maker.

As he came closer to the doorway, his wife turned around, a jealous gleam in her eyes. "It's for you," she muttered angrily before storming off to the bedroom. He gently grabbed her wrist, his eyes expressing a soft confusion, but she ignored it and tugged herself away. So it was personal. A thin shadow stood in the doorway, and Lestrade immediately understood his wife's reaction.

"What are you doing here, Huntington?" he asked loudly, trying to make it clear to his wife that it really was a work-related issue and not some floozy that stood at his door. "Is everything alright?"

He flicked the front light on to see Anna's face. Her eyes squinted at the light, but quickly adjusted to the wide-eyed gaze they always gave off. Her cheeks were flushed, but he couldn't tell if it was from the cold night air or something else. She was breathing heavily, and her hair was in disarray: she had been running.

"I'm fine," she huffed, speaking through breaths. She reached her arm out onto the doorframe for support.

"Anna," Lestrade said, lowering his voice, "Anna, what happened? What's going on?"

"Nothing's wrong, just—"she said, her eyes as bright as ever, "Sir, I wouldn't ask you to do this unless I was desperate, but would you mind if I—"

"Daddy," a small voice called from behind him. Lestrade turned around to see Caroline had come out of bed. "Daddy, who's at the door?"

Anna grew pale, extremely pale. "You have kids…oh God, sir, I am so sorry." With that, she picked up her backpack and made to leave.

"Anna," Lestrade called out, no longer caring what his wife thought of the situation. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"I just needed a place to stay. Last minute thing; my landlord forgot to tell me he was fumigating the building. Or rather, he told his tenants a couple days ago, but I wasn't there. For some reason, you were the first place I thought of." Anna gave him a grave smile and a tired laugh. "Silly, I'm just being ridiculous now; just tired. I'll go to Sherlock's place; don't worry about me. I am so sorry, sir."

With that, she was gone. Lestrade picked up Caroline and carried her back to bed, aware of the cold look his wife was shooting at the back of his head. As he turned off her light once more, he pulled out his phone.

_Huntington, you can trust me. I'm here to help you, only if you let me—Lestrade_

He took one look at the message, and then deleted it.

xxxxxxxxxx

_What did he want you to see? _

Sherlock paced up and down the living room of his flat. John was out getting groceries from a 24 hour convenience store (neither of them had spent much time in the flat within the past week and the only thing that remained in the refrigerator were Sherlock's inedible experiments. John was beginning to get sick of Chinese takeout), risking leaving the detective alone. It wasn't an ideal situation, but John knew it was then or never; besides, he would never get Sherlock to eat if there was no food to force upon him.

It had only been 28 hours since they had returned from the crime scene, and Sherlock had been asleep for 26 of them. It was what Sherlock called Information Overload; John simply called it "exhaustion." In short, if there was too much information being processed in his mind at one point, his body and mind would simply shut down. What it surmounted to was an undetermined amount of sleep that if denied would cause a much more serious comatose state later, as Sherlock found in his teenage years. On the fortunate side, he did usually wake up with a much clearer picture in his Mind Palace. This time was no exception.

In the dark evening, the only light was the yellowing lamps that had placed in the room. Reverting to the most recent information that had been input into his mind, he opened up his Mind Palace, recalling every detail from the Bolstead crime scene. Every detail.

_Obviously the Doll Maker isn't going to wait for me to figure this out. He'll have left everything I need in that room, somewhere I could see it. It's only a matter of time before he leaves another message; knowing what he's planning for that little girl is part of the game. Think, Sherlock, think: what did he want you to see?_

_The fault lies in the man: everything depends on Gary's sins. Gary was a sex trafficker, but he was forced into it, thus the message "This man sold his soul to the Devil." But how did the Doll Maker know? He must have seen Natasha with her parents; it's likely that he saw her with her father. Gary had stress issues; he had external symptoms. Fidgeted with his phone a lot. It's easy to break into anyone's e-mail today, and the Doll Maker is much more intelligent than the normal man. It was an easy code: he probably cracked it in a minute. _

_How did he know it was a forced occupation, though?_ Sherlock pulled Gary's phone out of his pocket and scrolled through each e-mail. _Meeting place…meeting place…quotas…meeting place…quotas…clients…these are all hard business e-mails. If he were being threatened, he would have tried to rid of message immediately: trash bin._ Scrolling down, he stopped. _Bingo: three photos attached, all Natasha. Judging from the angle: taken from an iPhone secretly. Message at the bottom: Finish the job, or we take the girl. How pathetic, using a child to threaten a sex trafficker. Return e-mail blocked and probably impossible to trace, but a sex trafficking ring is something for Lestrade. _

_How does this link to Natasha? Wait: both parents had a cut that circled the circumference of their wrists inflicted while they were alive. Attention was brought to their hands, but why? Hands: there's something important about hands. The phrase: he sold his soul to the Devil. The Doll Maker believes that preserving these children immortalizes them; he's not religious, but "Devil" is capitalized. The Devil must be a character in this fairy tale. So I'm looking for a story involving a wronged little girl, bad father, the Devil, and hands._ Sherlock pulled out his own phone: _fairy tales, father and daughter, Devil, cut hands…_

He gave a satisfied grin at the result: Brothers Grimm—the Girl without Hands.

Sherlock broke out of his reverie at the quiet grinding sound of a key in a lock. He looked at the clock: it was too early for John to be back from the convenience store, and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be expecting anyone at 10:30 at night, which meant there were only two people it could be; only one of them would actually have a key. The familiar clicking of boots came up the steps, and the rustle of a longer coat was heard by the door.

"Huntington," Sherlock called out in greeting. "It took you long enough."

"Sorry," she called back, "it's been a long night. I take it you figured it out already, judging by your pacing."

"Yes," he replied coolly, "it's Brothers Grimm: the—"

"—Girl without Hands, I know." she parleyed.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew inwards: "How?"

Anna sighed, making her way to the sofa and passing Sherlock a new playing card on the way. She sat down and pulled her boots off as he read.

_We shoot the bow, fight our foes, wring with woe. We are what the Devil demands, unless you give up yours. _

"Hands," Sherlock mumbled, "of course. Tell me the story."

"A miller made a deal with the Devil: if the miller gave the Devil what was behind his mill, the Devil would give him ultimate wealth. However, the miller didn't realize that his daughter was behind that mill of his. Three years after that deal, the Devil came to claim his prize, but he couldn't. The daughter had been sinless and kept her hands clean; he couldn't touch her because she was so pure. So, the Devil demanded the father to cut off his daughter's hands. He did, but his daughter's tears washed the stumps that remained, so the Devil still could not take her. Defeated, the Devil wandered away. The daughter left her father afterwards. An angel guided her to a royal garden, where she ate some pears and whatnot. The king who owned the garden heard of this, gave her hands of silver and married her off to his son. It's one of those rare happy endings, if you leave out the fact that the girl was maimed."

"The Doll Maker, when did he leave this?" Sherlock asked, holding up the card.

"My guess is sometime after 3 pm today," Anna replied, pulling off her coat. She sat in silence, watching as Sherlock continued to pace back and forth. She saw the excitement in his eyes.

"It's only a matter of time, Holmes," she said, breaking into his thoughts. He looked at her, trying read her emotions. She was just about to start scratching her finger, but then stopped, aware that that was exactly what the detective was looking for. Instead, she gave him that grave smile.

"I give it 48 hours," he said bluntly. "By the way, what exactly are you doing here?"

"He'll suspect something if I don't try and run, don't you think? I mean, no girl in her right mind would stick around her flat if she knew a psychopathic murderous kidnapper was after her. I just got up and left." she said. "Don't worry; I left a trail for him."

"How?"

"If the Doll Maker is watching me, which we both know he is, he would have followed me. When I got back to my place, the card was on my sofa. He's been in my house. I left in a 'panic' and went to Scotland Yard for a couple hours; tried to make it look like I was going to stay the night. Then I went to Lestrade's: it seemed to be the next logical place to go, as I don't know that many people in London. Made it very clear he had kids, acted guilty about the whole thing and left. Ended up here. Don't worry; he won't suspect at thing."

"Good, very good," Sherlock mumbled, still pacing.

"Let me see it," Anna said, holding her hand out.

"What?" he replied, still distracted by his own thoughts.

"What you found in Gary's waistband."

"Right; bravo, by the way," Sherlock commented. "Very believable argument with Donovan. But next time, don't make your signal so obvious; John noticed."

He handed her the card: _An Eye for an Eye, a Tooth for a Tooth; a Life for a Life, a Truth for the Truth. Time is Running Out, Sherlock Holmes._ As she read it, Anna shook her head. "It really is only a matter of time," she repeated, handing the card back to him.

"Yes," Sherlock stated, as if it were fact. It was a fact. He stopped pacing and stared at Anna. Their eyes locked in intense stares, trying to read each other's thoughts. That was what he found so intriguing about that girl; her never-ending attempts to understand him. That, and there was something interesting in the way she hid everything about herself away from the world. She was an enigma; an easy puzzle nonetheless, but a curious one indeed.

"Huntington," he said quietly, trying to draw her out. Every syllable cut the tense air between them. "This will only work if you—"

"Sherlock," she defied, her voice tightening. "I know how to play this game too. Our _plan_ will work."

"You know exactly what you're getting yourself into."

"Absolutely."

"Do you trust me?"

"Do I need to?" She stared back at him coldly. "I'm prepared to do anything, you know that."

"Good, because he will come for you, and when he does, I can't guarantee _you_ anything."

"Then don't," her voice cut the air. "I don't need your promises, Sherlock. I only need to know that when the time comes, you can find him. There are no second chances. If you miss this, he'll disappear again and I'll be dead."

"Which reminds me," Sherlock replied tersely, "I have this for you." He pulled out a compact blue glass cylinder and tossed it towards Anna, who caught it and held it up to the lamp light. Inside, she could see the dark outline of a syringe.

"What is this?" she muttered, shaking the cylinder and watching the shadow of a liquid within the syringe swing around.

"The children who were taken all had increased levels of antibodies in their blood. He gives each child two shots: one to serve as an anesthetic, and the other for paralysis. The antibodies are produced in response to the anesthetic, which is a foreign enough substance to have the immune system to react. The anesthetic, from what the lab analysis told me, is a compound that renders the child unconscious and unable to feel anything. In short, it takes down their defenses so the Doll Maker can place them without any fuss; they die painlessly. It's a brilliant way to manipulate children."

"So this is—"

"The antidote," Sherlock completed. "Take that before the Doll Maker gives you the anesthetic, and you'll be able to maintain all functions and consciousness. However, it won't work if you use it more than five hours before he gives you that first shot."

"Sherlock," Anna sighed, "this is brilliant."

"You're starting to sound like John. It's brilliant only if you know when and how to use it; use it too early, and you're done. It's useless against the paralysis compound as well, so you're on your own with that.

"You have one shot, Huntington; miss it, and you're dead." 


	18. Chapter 18: Nightmares

**Chapter 18: Nightmares**

"Huntington—Huntington—Anna!"

Anna jolted upright. She looked through the darkness to get a sense of her surroundings: a dark, unfamiliar room. She was on a bed, the covers slipping off her torso. A bead of sweat slipped down the side of her face, and her breathing was labored. Every muscle in her body tightened; every nerve was acutely sensitized. She was on defense mode.

"Anna, it's just me." In the darkness, a cool hand wrapped around her thin wrist; she didn't realize how warm the room was until then. She also realized that her right arm was pointed towards the voice, aiming a gun directly in someone's face. The same cool fingers lightly tugged on her fingers, willing her to release the weapon and put her arm down. Every touch set every nerve on fire. "It's just me," the voice repeated, as it stretched over to her side. There was a click, and the room was suddenly illuminated.

John turned on the bedside light. Anna took a deep breath and gave a deeper sigh, trying to regain control of her breathing. There was the soothing sound of a violin from the room next door that she slowly allowed to fill her mind. She closed her eyes and remembered the events of the night. She mumbled to herself "221B Baker St, 221B Baker St."

John looked at the young girl sitting in Sherlock's bed. Anna's long hair covered her face as she recuperated herself. She pulled her knees into her chest and wrapped them with her arms, huddling herself and hiding her face in her knees. Her body was swimming in one of Sherlock's shirts; she looked extremely thin in the dark shadows as the lamp light contrasted along her skin. But the shirt was damp with sweat, as were the pillows and the covers. She seemed so frail and sick in the stuffy room. John had never seen her look so vulnerable; and that vulnerability worried him.

"Anna," he whispered, placing one hand on her back. He felt her shaky breathing. He placed her other hand on her forehead; she was burning up. "Anna, you're sick."

"No, I'm not," she replied feebly. "Trust me, I'm not."

Still, he sat on her bedside, waiting for her to calm down. Eventually, her breathing evened out, and she opened her eyes. She was slightly dizzy from the deep breathing, but that whirling sensation helped alleviate some of the intense headache that was developing along her forehead. John's cool hand only stroked her back; it was a comforting motion that Anna had not felt since she was a little girl.

"Bad dream?" John asked in his doctoral tone. Although he knew how much Anna hated to be treated like a child, he knew that was the moment she needed it most.

"Yeah," she said quietly before giving off a small laugh. "I used to have that nightmare; I had it until I was ten. It went away for a while, but I guess it's back. I've been having it recently." There was another pause as she took another deep breath, still not looking up from her huddled position. "I wasn't screaming, was I?"

"No," John responded kindly. "But you were moving around a lot; I could hear you in the other room. A lot of tossing and turning, judging by the state of your hair." He lifted up a damp strand of hair and let it fall limply back on her shoulder.

"Good," she sighed. "You know, I used to scream bloody murder; it would drive my foster parents mad. They didn't know what to do about it, they were just thankful when I stopped having the dream altogether."

"What was the dream?"

Anna only shook her head; she wouldn't answer that. She synchronized her breathing to his; his steady hand on her back was incredibly calming, and she let herself relax. The room was still incredibly stuffy, but at least she could breathe now.

"I used to have nightmares too," John began, trying to fill the silence. He took a deep breath as Anna's head tilted slightly, a silent inquisition. "When I came back from Afghanistan, I, well, I couldn't leave the war behind me. They said it was PTSD, that it wasn't unusual; a bit a therapy would fix me up. Every night I'd go to sleep in darkness, but somehow the… images would come back to me. The guns, the fighting, the explosions, the blood; it would all appear, like a film on bloody repeat playing over and over and over again. I couldn't escape; even when I woke up in the middle of the night, I couldn't get away from the memories. They were always there."

"What made them stop?" Anna whispered.

"Well, I met Sherlock," he replied with a sigh. "We never really talked about Afghanistan or anything like that; we didn't need to because he already knew everything. But just knowing he was there, just knowing that there was always some case to be solved made me let go. I trusted Sherlock, and I let the past go. It sounds corny, I know, but that's what ended up happening; I let it all go."

John paused at the sound of his own words and let the silence fill the air once again. Anna seemed somewhat steadier, which made the doctor feel somewhat better. Brushing a hand against her neck, he felt her heartbeat slowing down.

"What time is it?" she finally asked, turning her head to look up at him. Her hair still covered her face, but she didn't care. She could see him between the strands. The fact that he couldn't clearly see her facial features gave her a sense of security.

"1 in the morning. When did you get here?" John asked.

"About 10:30, I think." she replied hazily. "Yeah, 10:30; I just came over to talk about the Bolstead murders. I think I fell asleep sometime after 11. Sherlock said I could take his bed. Sorry if I woke you."

"No, you're fine," he said. "I didn't get back till late either; had another row with the machine at the store." Anna laughed at that; she could see the doctor yelling abuse at a self-service machine. He smiled, glad to see she could still take a joke. "I made some food if you want it. Soup; it's the only thing Sherlock will eat when he's working on a case. Doesn't slow the digestion, apparently."

She nodded her head; she didn't feel like eating much. "You have to eat," John tried coaxing again, "Anna, you need to eat."

"You and Lestrade; you sound like my mother."

"Well, I guess we have to, don't we?" John replied. "Who else will take care of you?"

"I'm fi—"Anna knew she couldn't finish that statement. She was not fine in that moment; she obviously was far from fine. She knew she couldn't deny that to John, so she chose silence. He kept stroking her back, and Anna could see his concerned gaze through her hair. He genuinely cared about her; for whatever reason, he did.

"I'll eat in the morning, okay?" she said quietly, trying to appease him. In that moment, she felt weak, vulnerable, exposed. She wanted to regain control; that, or just sleep. She couldn't tell anymore. "I promise," she mumbled under her breath.

"Okay," John said, reaching to sweep the hair out of her face. Her cheeks were still flushed, making her lips look a deeper shade. She gazed up at him with wide blue eyes that begged for sleep.

"Anna?" John asked, his voice deepening and his own eyes widening.

"What?" she asked, her own voice tightening in concern. "What is it? What's wrong?"

John gazed for a second longer, and then returned to his doctor tone. "Nothing; nothing," he soothed. "Just go back to sleep. Eat something in the morning; doctor's orders."

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, slipping back under the covers as John turned off the lights.

John felt his way along the wall and opened a window, letting a wave of cool night air flow in. In the light of the moon, John saw Anna's backpack sitting by the door next to her boots, hidden under her clothes. As he left, he quietly brushed the clothes aside and grabbed the bag, closing the door softly behind him.

He wondered if he had perhaps hallucinated something, but he knew what he saw. Anna had been hiding something; she always had.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Blue eyes, Sherlock. When were you going to tell me?"

Sherlock never looked up from his violin. He had been playing, simply organizing his thoughts. They were simple melodies (for him, at least) that allowed him to keep his thoughts towards the Doll Maker. He associated certain melodic patterns to the case, which had taken him down a long road of musical selection.

"What?" he mumbled.

"Look, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop ignoring me; I've asked you the same question three times now," John replied, nearly throwing down the file in his hand in frustration. "When exactly were you going to tell me who Anna was? Is?"

Sherlock feigned mock innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking abou—"

"Oh, don't lie to me," John argued. "You knew; you knew who she was this entire time. That explains everything: every glance, every whisper, every silent moment between you two."

"What; are you saying you're jealous?"

"You could have told me."

"I could have told you what, John?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I want to hear it from a different perspective. Explain."

"Anna Huntington is really Elise Houlton." When Sherlock made no reaction other than to play his violin, John continued. "She hid her file from me the first time I met her; I didn't know someone had survived the Doll Maker's kidnapping attempts until Lestrade told me at the Blackstone murder site. But, she made copies of the files before she handed them over to Lestrade."

John pulled out the paperwork and a small photo, waving it around. "Elise Houlton: age five at the time. Dark brown hair and light blue eyes; Anna has brown eyes, but she's been wearing brown contacts and she takes them off when she sleeps. I just saw her natural eyes twenty minutes ago; that's what gave her away.

"According to the file, Elise was put into a Sussex Orphanage right after the murder of her parents, per court order. After an unspecified 'incident,' she was moved, and I am more than willing to bet that she was put into the Essex Orphanage. That's why I keep recognizing that name: Clara and Natasha were both adopted from there. When she was seven, an old couple going by the name of Huntington adopted her.

"Sherlock, Anna Huntington is Elise Houlton twelve years later. You knew that the moment you saw her."

"It took you long enough," Sherlock rebutted. "Didn't you think that was obvious? An eighteen year old teenage girl walks into Scotland Yard to solve a cold case, an impossible cold case, and suddenly the Doll Maker reappears; you didn't really think that was chance, did you? I'm surprised you didn't figure this out earlier."

"You should have told me."

"Why?"

"Because she's all the Doll Maker wants. All those clues lead to him taking Anna—Elise—whoever the hell she is. Everything connects to her. Sherlock, he's been watching you, watching everything in this investigation. We've led him straight to her. We should have stopped her from investigating this altogether."

"What difference would that have made?" Sherlock snapped, tearing the violin off his left shoulder. "He already knew where she was. He's known this entire time, John. You don't really think the Doll Maker would reappear without knowing where his ultimate goal was, do you? He's too clever for that. Anna knew it too."

"You knew that, she knew that, yet you let her continue this investigation?" John was furious; did Sherlock really lack any emotional sense of caring whatsoever? Did it really come down to the point that he had no regard about what would happen to the girl in the end?

"We need her, John," Sherlock said bluntly. "She will lead us directly to him. Without her, we have no idea—"

"Oh, I know your theory," John called back, standing up. "I read it, it was in the Houlton file: you proposed letting the Doll Maker kidnap little Elise so you could catch him. She would have died, Sherlock. It's the same today: if the Doll Maker takes her, she will die. Does her life mean nothing to you?"

"Listen to me, John," Sherlock launched himself towards his friend. "I told Maynard and Carliff something that they disregarded entirely. If we didn't catch the Doll Maker, he would come back. I was right; he did. I will tell you the same thing right: if we don't catch the Doll Maker now, he will keep taking children. So do not lecture me about a life, John. One life for the lives of many, many others. Besides, she won't die; not if I catch him."

"You can't be serious." With that, John fell back on the sofa. There was no arguing with Sherlock's logic; it took twelve years to prove, but he was right. But at the same time, it was wrong; so wrong. The idea of giving up Anna to a madman was preposterous, but what other choice did they have? The whole thing was turning into a bloody nightmare. The Doll Maker wanted Anna; he would do anything to get Anna. Anna was the key to everything. Anna, Anna, Anna…

"I keep forgetting she's only eighteen," he said, gazing towards Sherlock's bedroom. "She hides it so well. And she's been through so much already; I don't know how much more she can take."

"She knows what she put herself into," Sherlock said. "The less you sentimentalize her, the more clearly you can see her abilities. She can take care of herself; don't forget that."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" John muttered at quite a loss. "I suppose we can't tell Lestrade this; he'll put her in protective custody."

"Exactly," Sherlock responded coolly. "Which is precisely why Anna told me not to tell him; or you for that matter, but you figured it out on your own."

"What are we supposed to do then?" John repeated, putting his head in his hands.

"Just wait. The Doll Maker wants to make a deal; it's only matter of time before he makes his move. He's made that very clear to Anna."

"What?" John asked, lifting his head. Sherlock passed him the card from Anna: _We are what the Devil demands, unless you give up yours. _

"And what exactly is the 'demand'?"

"Her hands."

"You have got to be joking," John said once Sherlock had explained the processes behind the card and the Doll Maker's plans for Natasha. "You have got to be bloody kidding me."

"Time is running out," Sherlock said, picking his violin back up. "As is his patience. If we're careful, we can win this game, John."

"Or we can lose her, Sherlock."

"That, my dear friend, is a risk we must take."


	19. Chapter 19: Awake

**Chapter 19: Awake **

Sherlock sat in the chair facing the doorway, waiting patiently.

The effect of the four nicotine patches he placed up and down along his arms had begun. Every sense had become more acute: everything he heard, saw, or felt was intensified to the nines. The clock struck five; the bell vibrated in the air; John stirred slightly on the sofa where he had fallen asleep; Sherlock's shirt rustled in the other room as Anna rolled over in his bed; the light in the lamp flickered ever so slightly with a faint buzz; a breeze blew outside as the sky turned the faintest pink-purple of sunrise; the shadows began to change their shape; papers rustled; the second hand ticked; pipes creaked.

Sherlock felt all of this, every minute moment, yet he had never felt so calm. His mind traveled a hundred miles per second; running through everything he knew about Natasha, Clara, Anna, the Doll Maker, and everything he had seen through the past week. But there was a certain stillness; a certain quiet in his own mind that almost never graced his continuously moving brain. It was clarity, the strangest sensation of all. It was the only reason he could sit in a chair facing the doorway, waiting patiently.

_It's only a matter of time_, he thought, _before he leaves his "note"._

Suddenly, he caught something; a faint change in the loud silence. It was the familiar thin clicking of a paperclip in a lock, accompanied by a slow rustle of metal. The door downstairs quietly opened; light steps traveled up stairs; the pop of bending knees came from behind the doorway to the living room; faint sliding sound of a card being slipped under the door. Sherlock remained absolutely silent; the Doll Maker was right there, right behind the door. He lingered slightly before there was the faint shuffle of someone turning around. As the same footsteps moved down the stairs, Sherlock jumped up and went to the window.

He saw a tall man walk out of 221B Baker St, his long black coat trailing behind him and his back towards the window of the flat. He moved evenly, his shoulders remaining the same level. However, the wind betrayed him; a gust blew down the street, causing the tail of the coat to billow out for a split moment. That was all Sherlock needed: his ankles were exposed, and one lagged slightly behind the other. The Doll Maker stopped, sensing someone was watching him from above.

Sherlock took his chance: he ran to the door and swung it open, grabbing his coat and scarf off the wall before stooping down to collect the card. He flew down the stairs, throwing his coat and scarf over his shoulders. He pulled the front door open just in time to see the Doll Maker running around the corner of Baker St.

He made haste, slamming the door behind him and chasing the dark fiend. The cool morning air whipped at his face, but he didn't care. The adrenaline of the chase (coupled with that of the nicotine still running through his veins) offered him endless bursts of energy. As his mind diagramed every possible route the Doll Maker could take through the streets of London, he felt another sensation take over his mind: excitement.

So he ran, and kept running, trailing the long black coat that was never far out of his sight. The sun came out over London, only to illuminate two tall men in long trench coats running a wild chase. But did anyone notice? Did anyone care? Nobody else on the streets of London could see the battlefield that occupied the same place they walked along. Very few people knew, and even fewer cared. Sherlock Holmes, however, loved it. 

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some?"

Watson looked up from his laptop as Anna walked out of Sherlock's bedroom and into the kitchen. She looked much better than the night before: a shower had done her wonders. Her long hair seemed lighter, no longer damp with sweat. Her skin shone lightly and her eyes, back to brown, had more energy. She was wearing the same short skirt and black knee socks that she did the first time she had ever walked into 221B Baker St, except this time with another one of her tanks. Although he could still clearly see her clavicle bone, he found himself less worried about her. She had slept; that was a good enough start for him.

"Actually, I, um," John began, quiet unsure how to talk to her after their last conversation from the night before, and doubly so after finding out who she really was. "I made you something already; you promised."

Anna gave him her grave smile. "Of course," she replied quietly, hiding her own sense of awkwardness. She still felt somewhat open after breaking down in front of him the night before, but it could have been worse, she thought to herself. So she held herself firm under John's increased sensitivity, instead giving him a gratuitous gaze. "Thank you, John."

John smiled and shook his head: that was the first time she had ever called him by his first name. "Eggs and toast; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, thank you."

Contented, John returned his attention to the laptop, reading the story about the Girl without Hands. There was no point, in his mind, in telling Anna he knew who she really was. If he said anything then, she would close up entirely. He had just started to figure her out, and if he was to ever gain her trust, he needed to let her stay in control of her own identity. If he wanted to help her, that was all he could do.

Anna grabbed the food off the kitchen table and brought it into the living room. Setting herself down on the sofa, she took a deep breath. The living room of 221B Baker St. was inviting, enlightened by the rare golden light of a sunny autumn morning. Everything was placed perfectly in a state of constant disarray, and she found herself at home. There was nothing but the sound of John's typing; it was a peaceful morning to say the least.

But Anna could see other things as well. John was nervously tapping his left index finger against his thigh. He glanced down at his phone almost every other second. A tired breath was unconsciously released from him as well. Something was bothering John, and there was only one thing missing.

"John," Anna asked, about to take a bite out of her toast, "where's Sherlock?"

Watson sighed in desperation and held up his phone, which he had indeed been checking every other minute. He was officially worried. "I have no idea. I've been texting him; he hasn't responded to anything."

Anna's eyes widened; Sherlock going missing was not a good sign, especially not the morning after she arrived. "What time did he leave?"

"I think about five. I don't know; I fell asleep." He didn't even remember falling asleep on the sofa, but when he woke up, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. If the Doll Maker had done anything to him, he thought to himself, he would personally go and kill him.

"It's seven right now," she said, glancing at the clock. "Have you texted Lestrade?"

"I'm about to," he said, pressing a button on his phone. "Do you have any idea where he could have gone?"

"No," she replied, "No. You don't think the Doll Maker got him, do you?"

"Dear god, I hope not."

There was a slam from the door downstairs, and a rushed set of footsteps followed. Anna and John both stood up as Sherlock's lean figure suddenly appeared in the doorway. He was panting heavily and his hair was in complete disarray, but there was a large smile on his face and his eyes glimmered with a disappointed excitement.

"Sherlock, where in god's name have you been?" John scolded while a feeling of relief flooded through him. Of course Sherlock was fine; the fear, as usual, was an unnecessary reaction. "You didn't respond to any of my texts; I was about to text Lestrade."

"No need, John. I'm here now, aren't I?" He pulled off his scarf and coat, hanging them on the coat rack. He nodded towards Anna, "You're awake."

"Yes; yes I am," Anna commented starkly to the obvious observation with defiant eyes, hiding her own relief. "Where were you running?"

"Why were you running?" John asked, watching Sherlock curiously. Sherlock did like to run, but morning jogs were never his thing. In fact, it was rare that he was even awake before noon unless there was a case he had stayed up all night for. Regardless, morning jogs weren't common.

"He was here," Sherlock huffed, regaining his breath in seconds. "The Doll Maker: he was here this morning. Left this—"He reached into the coat pocket and held up a calling card.

"What does it say?" Anna and John immediately called out, before looking at each other; the synchronization shocked both of them, and if it weren't for the serious nature of the card, John would have laughed.

"An address and a time: _729 A—St. Box 14. 2:45 pm._"

"A—St." John said under his breath, vaguely recognizing the name. "Wait; it's a series of rented warehouses by the docks. It's perfect; it's exactly where we said the Doll Maker would be."

"Right," Anna jumped in, "but aren't those warehouses code protected?"

"He left a hint," Sherlock continued, "_Nothing escapes me: I haunt your present and decide your future. All obey me, none know me." _

"Death," she replied immediately. "That was easy, though; why was that so simple?"

"He didn't mean for it to be hard; he just wants us there. Remember, he's getting desperate."

"You were chasing him, weren't you Sherlock?" John asked. "Where did he lead you?"

"I got as far as the corner of D—St. and L—Ave. He wasn't trying to lead me anywhere; in fact, he didn't mean for me to see him at all."

"What gave him away then?"

"It's not that hard to spot a 6 foot tall, 200 pound man out on the street in front of our flat, is it John?" Sherlock pointed out. "But it gave me some time to observe his limp."

"And?" Anna asked.

"It's definitely a medical condition. It didn't affect his balance or his speed whatsoever, which means it's a chronic condition he's been living with for a while."

"So what do we do now?" John asked. "Just wait?"

"Precisely," Sherlock replied, pulling out his phone to text Lestrade. "We'll have Lestrade meet us at the warehouse. 2:45."

John and Anna looked at each other, quite unsure of what to do. The silence built between them; she could see the worried tension in his eyes. But she only nodded back at him, trying to make him trust her. While he admired the defiance in her eyes and her lack of fear, he couldn't shake off the feeling that something terrible was going to happen to her. Something terrible was going to happen to her, and there was nothing he could do to protect her; not without giving what he knew about her away. It was incredibly frustrating. Unable to take it anymore, John stormed off out of the living room, mumbling something about needing air.

Neither Sherlock nor Anna looked at John as he exited the room. Instead, Sherlock walked towards the sofa until he was directly in front of the young girl; so close that he could hear her breathing. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked as she stared at him (the height difference when they were so close required Anna to look up and Sherlock to look down). Although the question itself was in good nature, there was a challenging tone behind it, as if he were daring her to say no.

"I'm sure."

"Then it's only fair that you see this." He handed her the card and watched as she read it, eyes scanning each typed line.

"It says 2:30," she whispered, her breathing growing deeper. She looked up once more at Sherlock, who stared back at her with sharp eyes. She gave that grave grin that she used so often to hide her true emotions, which, judging by the new bead of blood on her thumb, was fear; pure, unadulterated fear. "2:30," she repeated, her voice completely flat.

"He wants you alone."

"I figured," she replied. "He'll have Natasha there as well."

"Her life is not your responsibility," Sherlock sharply stated.

"No, but the Doll Maker is." There was a pause as they both formulated their next moves in their heads, Anna letting the actuality of the situation sink in while Sherlock locked his eyes on her fingers. The middle finger of her right hand scratched against her inner thumb.

"I can hold Lestrade and his men off until 2:40," he said.

"Yes, thank you."

"You know what to do."

"I do." With that, Anna pocketed the card and turned away, moving towards the door. Sherlock watched as she slipped her coat on and simply left. There was nothing else to say and nothing else to do, so Sherlock turned around and looked out the window, watching the young girl cross the street and turn the corner.

As she turned the corner, Anna looked back to make sure she was out of Sherlock's sight; he could see a lot through that window. It took everything within her not to scream or cry; now was not the moment to be emotional she told herself, but she couldn't stop herself from trembling. Her breathing becoming shaky, so she stopped walking and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, counted to ten, and opened her eyes. There she was, standing in the middle of the urban street with nothing but fear in her heart. So the Doll Maker had been following me, she thought to herself. She had known that; she had just hoped the message wouldn't come so soon. This was the moment she had been waiting for; this was her chance to catch the madman and finally put him away. So why was she so scared? How could death be any more fearful than the psychopath? Pulling the card out of her pocket, she took one last look at the bottom line on the card.

_A Hand for a Hand, Elise; it's Hers or Yours: Make Your Choice. _


	20. Chapter 20: Ambush

**Chapter 20: Ambush **

"Sherlock, are you mad? You want me to hold off the ambush until five minutes before?"

Lestrade looked up at Sherlock from his desk. The walkie-talkie next to him buzzed with questions from the police teams being established downstairs, and the Inspector Detective immediately turned the volume down before giving Sherlock the same questioning look. It was very unlike Sherlock to become involved in an ambush raid, but he stood there adamantly.

"Yes Lestrade," Sherlock replied sharply, giving him the severe look only reserved for moments of immense necessity. His figure towered over the desk, staring down at the blueprints and maps of the Warehouses on 729 A—St. "That is precisely what I just said, and that is exactly what I wanted you to do."

"You have got to be joking," Lestrade replied incredulously. "That's not enough time. We can nab the Doll Maker if we have better time to surround the premises. It'll be easy, but I still need time to set the men—"

Sherlock glanced at the clock; it was still only 1:30. Anna would be preparing herself now. "No you don't. The men can position themselves quickly, I'll grant them that, but they will give our place away, those imbeciles. If they make one sound, one mistake, the Doll Maker will know exactly where they are. The less time waiting, the less opportunities to give their positions away."

"These are trained men, Sherlock; that won't happen so easily. Besides, the earlier we set up, the better we can analyze the area and predict his escape routes."

"Don't be stupid; it won't make a difference," Sherlock shouted at Lestrade. "The Doll Maker is already expecting me and John. I'm sure he's taken the possibility of a police ambush into account. Don't you realize he has planned this out so he has a thousand different ways out of that warehouse, regardless of whether or not you're there? I'm telling you, hold your men off until 2:40."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, who only returned with a grave, resolute stare. Both men remained motionless, waiting for the other to make the first move. Lestrade turned up the volume on the walkie-talkie.

"_Ready to send out first batch of snipers, sir."_

Lestrade shot another doubtful glance to Sherlock before reluctantly picking up the static-filled machine.

"Hold your men off; we will begin the operation at 2:40."

"_But sir—"_

"You will hold off until 2:40 and that is final."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Box 14: Death—33284."

It was 2:30 pm exactly. Anna pressed the buttons on the side door of the warehouse, each electronic beep piercing the air. The lapping sound of the water on the docks around her was soothing, and the cool fall air breezed through her hair. She took a deep breath, taking in the fresh air and looking once more at her surroundings.

The gray cement color of the warehouse almost meshed with a dull gray sky; a monotonous tone of the rows and rows of empty warehouses left the impression of abandonment. Each of the 300 warehouses arranged in five rows were the same; one door leading into a large box lined with windows on the upper sides, and two doors on the sides connecting the warehouses. The only things defining them were the painted black numbers that morosely defined a location and the contents. The contents could have been anything; the only one Anna cared about was the contents of Box 14.

Pulling the card out of her pocket, Anna reminded herself what was at stake: _A Hand for a Hand, Elise; it's Hers or Yours: Make Your Choice. _This was all a game; a game between her and the Doll Maker. If he won, she lost Natasha for good; that little girl would die, forever immortalized as the Girl Without Hands. She could not let that happen. She would not. However, if she won—

There was an erroneous shriek, followed by a flashing red light: the wrong code. Her forehead clenched for a moment, thinking. The card said _Nothing escapes me: I haunt your present and decide your future. All obey me, none know me_. Death was perfect; too perfect, as she should have known. As her hands began to itch, she realized something. I haunt your present and decide your future: the past. The Doll Maker was taunting her; she had hidden her past away from the rest of the world. A five letter word that represented her past…

"35473—Elise," she muttered under her breath, each number followed with the piercing beep. She hesitated before she pressed the last button; she took one last deep breath. There was no escaping this moment. The Doll Maker would come for her eventually; at least if she walked into his trap, she would have the upper hand. At least, she hoped so. But her mind shook those doubts off; there was no time for hesitation. The tremors had subsided and her fear dissipated; she had absolutely nothing to fear. He was a man; a psychopath, but a man nonetheless. She pressed the last number: 3.

There was the loud click of the lock in the door, and Anna felt something move in the door's handle.

Right hand on the door and left hand clutching the gun in her left coat pocket, she slowly pressed her weight against the door, trying her hardest not to make a sound. She pushed the door open a crack and slipped through quickly, the door's hinges squeaking ever so slightly. There was a faint thud as the door closed behind her and then nothing.

It was peaceful, the strange silence in the gloomy atmosphere of Warehouse 14. The echoing silence was frail, so much so that she was afraid to breathe heavily. The air was dank, as if contained in one area for far too long; there was the smell of dust and moisture that plagued unused places. Looking at the floor around her boots, Anna saw the stirred dust; the warehouse was almost never used, but someone had entered it. Someone had entered it fairly recently, and had been dragging something behind them; something the size of a human. She looked up towards the high ceiling of the warehouse to where a pale grey light streamed through the narrow windows. She could see the particles of dust floating around in the air, illuminated by the stream of natural lights; the actual lights of the warehouse were still off, leaving the warehouse in a dimmed state. Anna could see the majority of things in front of her, but nothing in the shadows.

The room itself was filled with piles of huge wooden shipping boxes, stacked so Anna could not see anything in front of her. They were grouped in bunches, seemingly organized chaotically, leaving very limited gaps between them. At once, Anna understood; it was a maze. The Doll Maker had purposely made a maze. Gripping the gun tighter in her pocket, Anna took a step forward, turning the corner formed by the towering boxes cautiously. This was exactly what the Police Academy had prepared her for; she knew what she was doing. Her boots clicked lightly against the concrete floor, and the only other sound was the rustling of her clothes. She kept her breathing minimal as she slowly progressed.

Suddenly, there was a faint sound; a high pitch plea with a crystalline clarity that shot chills down Anna's spine and made her eyes widen.

"Help me; please help me."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I want every doorway blocked. Put two people on the roof of this row of warehouses and get a vantage point of Warehouse 14. I want four snipers, two set on each window of 14 to monitor for any motion within the room. The rest of you need to be stationed at any exit point immediately. Go!"

Lestrade strode around the warehouses as his team of snipers and policemen were dispatched to their ambush points. He pulled out his phone: it was exactly 2:40 pm. Five minutes; they had five minutes to establish ambush points. He was aware that this was probably the only chance he would get to capture the Doll Maker and that only made him more determined to do this. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel slightly unsettled. Why had the Doll Maker chosen that moment to make his move? There was something not right about this sudden arrival; something not right at all.

He looked around at the bustling scene: police men were quietly running around, grabbing their guns and testing the batteries in their walkie-talkies. Donovan stood by the main entrance door, clad in a black bulletproof vest and gun pulled put to her chest. Anderson waited by a large white van with the Forensics team. Sherlock was standing on the concrete walkway, gazing blankly in front of him and tapping his right index finger against his leg. Under his usual black coat, a bulletproof vest was hanging limply on him. It had been a struggle to get Sherlock to agree to put the thing on, and he only touched it when Lestrade had threatened to leave him behind at Scotland Yard if he didn't. Of course, the consulting detective still didn't even bother to put it on correctly, but it was better than nothing. He wasn't going to take a chance though; the Doll Maker's signature attack was a shot to the abdomen, and he certainly did not want Sherlock to have a reason to end up in the hospital. However, there was something about Sherlock's lack of activity that made Lestrade nervous: Sherlock's only movement was his tapping index finger. There was nothing else; it was as if the man wasn't worried about a thing. It was as if he were expecting something.

"_Lestrade, Russo and I on the roof." _

Lestrade pulled the walkie-talkie up to his mouth at the static sound of Dr. Watson's voice. "What's your perspective?"

John laid on his stomach, finding the familiar tension of a trigger against his finger strangely soothing. With his military experience, it was only natural that he took one of the sniper positions; but he did have to admit he was getting ever so slightly too old for this. As he looked through the scope of the sniper, he scanned the room.

"Well, I can see the center of the room, but that's it," John replied. "He's got boxes stacked up pretty high; I can't see the layout. But there's a chair in the center. We'll keep an eye out on things."

The Detective Inspector went through a mental checklist: Donovan, Anderson, Sherlock, Russo and John on the roof…

"Sherlock," Lestrade called out, facing him once more, "where's Huntington?"

"She'll be here soon, I'm sure," he responded vaguely, suppressing a smile.

Lestrade pulled out his phone; he had already texted her five times to meet them there. There was definitely something wrong, but it would be something he would have to deal with later.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Natasha?" Anna whispered as she turned another corner silently.

"Please help me. Help me; where is my mommy?" the small voice kept calling. Anna followed the sound through the maze of boxes, but the sound of her name in the little girl's voice was chilling. Every turn she made, the voice would get louder; she was getting closer.

"Natasha, where are you?"

"Please help me, it hurts." Anna could hear the voice start to cry. "Help me, it hurts."

"It's okay," she whispered, turning yet another corner. She had to be getting closer, but the closer she got, the more acute her senses became. There was a shuffle behind her, and she jumped ever so slightly, pointing the gun behind her. The Doll Maker was somewhere in there too. Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she looked at the time: 2:43 pm. It was only a matter of time before Lestrade and the team would be there.

"I'm almost there. Where are you?"

"Help me, I want to go home now."

"Is the Doll Maker with you?"

"Please, it hurts."

"Where is he?"

Anna turned one last corner, and she found herself in a strange opening in the room. The light streaming in illuminated the gray floor. There was a large chair placed in the center of the opening, its back faced towards her. Striding over to it, she swiveled it around so the seat faced her.

xxxxxxxxxx

"_Hang on, there's someone in there. That blue coat—it's Anna. Sherlock, Lestrade, Anna's in there."_

Lestrade's heart stopped; Anna was in there. Alone; well, not alone. There was only one other person who could be in there. He threw one more look at Sherlock, who had finally flinched to attention, before clicking on the walkie-talkie.

"What's she doing?" he called out, preparing to motion to his men to start breaking down the door.

"_I don't know; I can't see her very well. Her back is towards me. She's moving out towards the chair. Lestrade, do something."_

"I've got this," Lestrade replied, switching the walkie-talkie to Call All. He was about to press the talk button when Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "What are you doing, Sherlock? Huntington's in there with no backup."

"Wait and see what she does," he said coldly.

"What? Sherlock, you knew she was in there, didn't you?" He didn't need to wait to know the answer. "What the hell were you thinking? We've got to get her out—"

"No," Sherlock stated sternly, staring Lestrade down with one of the darkest looks he had ever seen. "Trust her; she knows what she's doing."

"She's going to die."

"Wait, Lestrade; wait and see what she does."

xxxxxxxxxx

There was no little girl, and there was no Doll Maker. On the plastic seat of the chair, there was only a rolling tape recorder.

Picking it up, Anna pressed a silver button, the tape whining as it sped forward. As the tape ran down to its final few seconds, she let the button go and pressed play.

"Am I done now mister?" Natasha's voice called out. The tape gave an loud click and stopped. A cold chill shot down her spine, every hair along her neck standing up. Anna realized her mistake at once: she had left herself wide open.

She gasped as someone kicked her legs out from underneath her. An arm wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms against a broader chest and rendering her immobile. Her gun fell to the concrete floor with a pathetic clatter; it was useless now. She fought against the Doll Maker, struggling in his grasp, but she couldn't move. Her hair flew around as she flung herself backwards and forwards, trying to throw the man off his balance, but it didn't seem to have an effect on him.

"Get off of me!" she screamed.

A hand clamped over her mouth. She couldn't breathe.

xxxxxxxxxx

"LESTRADE!"

John screamed into the walkie-talkie. A giant figure dressed in a long black trench coat strode up behind Anna and grabbed her with very little effort. He couldn't see the assailant's face, but he knew who it was; there was only one person it could be. He watched her struggle against the Doll Maker's hold, but Anna's small, frail frame was nothing compared to him. "He's got her! Do something!"

He threw the walkie-talkie away and returned to the sniper's scope. He heard Russo click the sniper's trigger on, preparing to shoot through the window.

"No, don't" John called, swinging his head away from the scope towards Russo, "look at them; if you hit the Doll Maker, you'll hit the girl in a vital area."

When he returned his sight to the scope, the two figures were gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

"_LESTRADE! He's got her! Do something!" _

Lestrade tore his wrist away from Sherlock's wrist. "All units go! NOW!" he screamed into the walkie-talkie.

Donovan pressed the code into the electronic box, before being met with an erroneous shriek. "Sherlock!" she called out, "It's not working; the code you gave me is wrong."

"Move!" Sherlock shoved Donovan out of the way, his mind racing through every possibility. Of course the Doll Maker hadn't meant Death; that would have been too easy. His eyes darted across the keypad, assigning letters with numbers, words to hints from the Doll Maker's card. "Elise," he muttered under his breath, pushing the buttons quickly until he heard the click of the lock.

He moved out of the way as Donovan swung the door open and the police filed in. Lestrade followed, jogging through the maze of boxes with his gun aimed in front of him. Sherlock strode in behind them; he already knew what they would see.

"_They're gone, Lestrade. She's gone." _

Lestrade heard John's report just as he reached the opening in the middle of the warehouse. There was nothing and nobody; nothing but a chair and tape recorder in the center of the room. There was no possible way out; they had every exit covered. They had done everything right, and still they had lost it all. The Doll Maker had vanished. Anna was gone.

"What the hell is this?" Donovan called out. "I thought you said the Doll Maker would be here, freak."

Lestrade took a 360-turn of the room, searching for anything; absolutely anything. The only unusual thing was Sherlock, who stood by the chair with an omniscient look of thought. He watched as the consulting detective picked a card off the floor.

_Another Work by the Doll Maker. _


	21. Chapter 21: The Sociopath's Humanity

**Chapter 21: The Sociopath's Humanity **

"What the hell is going on, Sherlock?"

Lestrade was restraining the desire to punch the man standing right in front of him. He was yelling, but he didn't care. After finding Warehouse 14 empty and utterly devoid of any forensic evidence, he was frustrated; frustrated and infuriated. Although he had managed to keep his anger in check at the crime scene itself, he had no intention of masking it in his office where he had summoned the consulting detective and his companion. Sherlock remained by the window, staring at the city of London; John stood in front of Lestrade's desk, equally upset with his friend.

Anna was missing; kidnapped by the Doll Maker.

"You knew Huntington was in there," Lestrade continued. "You knew the Doll Maker would be in there and you let her go in alone. And then you ask me to hold off my ambush until five minutes before the time set by the Doll Maker. I don't know how Huntington beat us to the warehouse, but I'm sure you know. I'm not quite sure why he took her; she seems a bit too old for his general pattern, but that doesn't change the fact that her life is now in danger. I should charge you with aiding and abetting a kidnapping, Sherlock, and I am extremely tempted to."

"Don't be so melodramatic Lestrade," Sherlock replied bluntly. He glowered at the Detective Inspector, already annoyed by the prospects. Normally he wouldn't have been so easily summoned by Lestrade, but John had dragged him to Scotland Yard straight from the warehouses. So there he was, having to participate in this boring, completely useless lecture when he should been in the St. Bart's lab doing something useful.

"Melodramatic?" John cried out in disbelief. He couldn't believe what he was hearing from his friend; Sherlock couldn't be so emotionally dense, could he? Could he be so heartless? "You think Lestrade is being melodramatic? An eighteen year old girl is missing because of you and you think Lestrade is overreacting? For Christ's sake Sherlock, you can't just throw Anna's life away."

"I did nothing of the sort," Sherlock argued back.

"No, that's exactly what you did," John continued, still absolutely livid. "You knew she was what the Doll Maker was after; you've known that the whole time that she is the object of his obsession, but you still sent her in there. He's right Sherlock; you pretty much handed her over on a silver platter."

"The Doll Maker was after Anna specifically? It wasn't just a normal kidnapping?" Lestrade swung around to John, his face crunched in confusion. John gave him a small, solemn nod in response before he swung back around to Sherlock. "And you knew that this entire time?"

"Of course I knew," Sherlock replied in his same blunt tone. "Who else would the Doll Maker want?"

"But why would the Doll Maker want an eighteen year old trainee detective? She's too far out of his age range, unless—oh god," the realization dawned on Lestrade's, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping slightly. "She's the girl that survived, isn't she? Elise Houlton."

"That took you long enough, Lestrade," Sherlock mocked slightly. "I knew you were dense, but really…I recognized her the moment I saw her."

"You didn't think to tell me that? That would have changed everything." Lestrade rubbed his face with his hands, smoothing them towards his hairline. Anna Huntington was Elise Houlton; this changed everything.

"She told me not to tell you because she was afraid you would take her off the case. I simply kept my word." There was no regret in Sherlock's voice; only a deep concentration that permeated through his justification.

"And you listened to her? Jesus, Sherlock. And you," Lestrade swung back to John, "why didn't you bother telling me this?"

"Me?" John stiffened at the accusation. "I didn't figure this out until last night. She hid the Elise Houlton part of the Doll Maker file from me the first time I met her; I didn't know anything until I stole her copies of the files. I haven't even known for more than twenty-four hours."

"You should have stopped her from going into Warehouse 14, John. I can see Sherlock not doing anything, but you? She needed to be put into protective custody; she should have been put under police protection."

"I didn't know she was going in there before the rest of us until I saw her through the sniper scope," he countermanded. "Believe me; I would have stopped her if I knew she was planning to go in."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Sherlock interrupted, suddenly turning away from the window and staring at the two men arguing in the office. "The Doll Maker would have come for Anna whether or not she went into that warehouse."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade pressed.

"The Doll Maker has been watching Anna for a long time now; he knows where she was adopted from, he knows who her foster parents are, he knows where she works, and he knows where she lives. He knows everything about her; it was only a matter of time before he would try and take her."

"Is that supposed to make us feel better?" John asked sarcastically.

"No; it's supposed to make you see the obvious facts that you two fools can't seem to wrap your minds around," Sherlock retorted sharply.

John stared at Sherlock incredulously. Normally he would talk himself down from this ledge of frustration he found himself on; Sherlock had a heart, he just didn't know how to express it properly. His friend did, somewhere deep down, in fact care about other people, he just didn't know how to communicate that to others. This time, though, John had no patience to talk himself down. This time, John really did question Sherlock's humanity.

"Tell me Sherlock; was this part of your plan? Having a young girl kidnapped by the psychopathic murderer who has been after her for the past twelve years, was that part of your plan?" John asked him bitterly, trying to stare him down.

"What plan?" Lestrade questioned directly.

"Sherlock and Anna had a plan, apparently," he replied without ever looking away from Sherlock. "Was Anna's kidnapping part of it?" he repeated. He glared heavily at the man who seemed to have no regard to the life of a young girl, almost issuing a direct warning to his companion about what answer would be acceptable.

Sherlock simply returned the serious nature of the stare to John. "Yes."

"You knew the risk of that, and yet you still let it happen."

"Yes."

"So you basically offered Anna's life to the Doll Maker just so you could have the chance to catch him. Tell me Sherlock, because I just don't know what to say anymore; you do realize that you've condemned Anna to death, don't you?"

"That was a risk I had to take, John. We discussed this already; there is no way to get to the Doll Maker unless we gave him what he wanted. What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I regret the whole thing and that it was wrong? Do you want me to apologize?"

"No," John replied, his eyes still fuming. Lestrade stood observing this argument in silence. "No, I want you to realize what you've done. You've killed her; you've killed Anna simply because you wanted to catch a madman. This is a young girl's life on the line Sherlock," John was nearly yelling now, "this isn't just a game; this is a human life."

"Will you shut up and listen to me?" Sherlock stepped towards John with a most dark stare. He glanced at Lestrade threateningly, warning him not to get involved in the conversation. His lean figure towered over that of Watson's, and in that moment he appeared to be a giant force. John looked up at the consulting detective with defiance.

"The sooner you get your emotions out of your head," Sherlock snarled, "the sooner you two imbeciles can see the illogical aspects of your sentimentality." He was fed up with all of John and Lestrade's guilt regarding losing Anna. It was beyond ridiculous, and it was utterly useless in a case like this. It wasn't doing any good for anyone. The fact that it consumed the other two men in the room proved a lack of discipline, a lack of foresight. It was something that, especially in that moment, Sherlock would not and could not tolerate.

"What you two blindly disregard is the position that Anna's kidnapping puts us in," he bluntly stated. "She can give us insight as to what his plans are. Think about it: we can't catch the Doll Maker if we don't have any idea what his next move will be. Anna can communicate his next step. Without her, this entire investigation is utterly useless. You both know it is.

"Regarding her life," he continued coldly, "this is exactly what she wanted to happen. She was willing, I repeat willing, to put herself in danger to make sure that I would have ample opportunity to find the man. For you two to ignore her personal opinion on this case would be more ridiculous than anything else you've said at this meeting, so stop with the whole life-and-death folly. At least she understood the importance of the gamble; her life to ensure the lives of children in the future, to end this game of his.

"I will find her. I will find them both, but I need Anna to give me more data."

With that, Sherlock went silent. Nobody in the room could make a sound. John finally turned away, putting a hand to his forehead as Lestrade gave off a deep sigh. There was no arguing with Sherlock's logic; he was right. There was no other way to find the Doll Maker; Anna had to be taken if they wanted anything else to happen. But it felt wrong; the logic felt wrong. Was it fair to offer up the life of an innocent young girl for a life of sickening madman?

"So what's the next step?" Lestrade asked quietly, listening to John give off a sigh in the background. When he got no response, he asked again. "What was the next step in this plan of yours, Sherlock?"

"We wait," he replied bluntly, striding across the room from the window to the door.

"For what?"

"For Anna to give us a sign."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered, now frustrated with the conversation. Absolutely nothing was being done; he had better things to do, more pressing things to do, more interesting things to do. "Whenever she has the chance, I would imagine."

"Sherlock, there was no next step, was there?" John interrupted. "You're playing this by ear, aren't you?"

"You already know the answer to that, John." He reached out to the handle of the door and was about to push his way out before giving one last glance to his friend. He still didn't understand John's guilt about Anna's kidnapping (it had become way too personal; and here he had thought that John had controlled any feelings for the girl by now), but at least he knew not to comment on it.

"Okay then," John sighed. "What are we supposed to do until then?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, looking thoughtfully through the doorway. Finally, someone had asked the right question; it had only taken them twenty minutes. Formulating his thoughts, he felt every part of his mind begin to twist and turn and think, like the cogs of a machine whirling around. It finally came to him.

_If the Doll Maker is just as sentimental as these two…_

"Lestrade, continue your search of the warehouses on A—St., especially Warehouse 5, Warehouse 12, and Warehouse 18. Try not to let Forensics ruin all the evidence; take pictures of everything you find in those three warehouses and send them to me."

"Why those—"Lestrade tried to ask, but Sherlock cut him off.

"He's been obsessed with Anna this entire time, and he has a sense of nostalgia in his humor. He chose to kidnap her from Warehouse 14; she is the fourteenth child to be taken from him. Anna was five when he tried to kidnap her, it's been twelve years since that attempt, and Anna is now eighteen: 5, 12, or 18.

"John, I need you to go to every exclusive-experimental UK pharmaceutical company's shipping databases that are available and find any missing calcium-based compounds between now and fifteen years ago. It shouldn't be that hard; there are only twenty of them in all. Don't bother calling them; they're not going to want to tell you that their experimental compounds have been stolen through the shipping process. You're going to have to look through the data by hand. Text me when you're done."

"Wait," John called out as Sherlock tried to swing through Lestrade's doorway, "where are you going?"

"St. Bart's," he called out with a vague wave before striding out.

Lestrade and John were left awkwardly in the Detective Inspector's office, neither of them particularly wanting to do the task that had been laid out for them. Lestrade finally had a moment to breathe, and he slumped down into his chair running his hands through his hair. John saw this distressed motion and walked over to him.

"It's okay Lestrade," John said quietly, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. "You didn't know who she was. Anna didn't tell you. There was nothing else you could do."

"I was supposed to take care of her," Lestrade mumbled darkly. "I'm in charge of all the interns; I was supposed to make sure she was okay. This is precisely the kind of thing I'm supposed to prevent. God, how could I not recognize her?"

"It's not your fault," John replied, letting go of the detective and making his way to the door. "We're going to find her. Sherlock and I are going to find her, and if that sick bastard has harmed Anna in any way, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Lestrade asked cynically.

"I'll kill him."


	22. Chapter 22: The Madman's Nonsense

**Chapter 22: The Madman's Nonsense**

"Come now, you have to drink something. Here, this will make you feel better."

Through the darkness, Anna felt something cool being brought up to her lips. Waves of cold radiated from the edge of a smooth surface, and a chilling liquid was released into her mouth. She shivered at first, causing bits of water to dribble down her chin, but she found herself pulling towards the glass; she was a lot thirstier than she had realized.

Consciousness slowly returned to her mind as she tried to reattach to reality. Her thoughts were enveloped in a deep haze, all her memories jumbled up in a muddy mess. Her body felt numb and disconnected, as if they had been in one position for far too long. It was the worst in her arms, though. She moved slowly and delicately, trying to get the blood flowing enough to feel her surroundings. She felt her fingers twitch lightly, scratching against one another in a vaguely comforting habit. She made a fist, feeling returning to the palm of her hand. She tried to move her wrists; she couldn't. She lightly tried to tug her wrists apart once more before understanding: her hands had been tied behind her back.

Reality came crashing down, the memories appearing instantaneously in her mind with a fearsome lucidity. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Warehouse 14, a boxed maze, a voice, a chair, a tape recorder, a gun.

The Doll Maker. The Doll Maker had taken her.

Her breathing gave a sharp jolt, and the stream of water still flowing into her mouth lightened hesitantly. Anna leaned forward, pulling her lips to the glass again; she still needed time to establish her conditions and a reason not to talk. She continued gulping down the water, trying to buy herself some more time. She leaned back ever so slightly, trying to establish her physical conditions.

_Judging by the pressure on my back and the numbness in my arms, I'm sitting in a plastic chair with no armrests. My wrists are behind my back, tied with—_Anna tugged her wrists once more—_a plastic cord; there's no way of slipping out of it or cutting it lose on my own. But if I'm in an arm-restless chair, there has to be another part of my body tied down as well. _She lifted one foot away from the floor ever so slightly so the captor wouldn't see her move. _I can move my feet and legs above ten degrees: my ankles aren't tied down, which means that there's probably a looser piece of plastic cord around my waist and the back of the chair. Running is not an option, then. _

_The air has a damp quality: knowing the Doll Maker's possible locations and occupation, I'm still in a warehouse by the docks. There's been rain recently as well: there isn't a heavy salt scent in the air. London was the only city that was supposed to get rain in the last couple days, so I'm probably still in the London area. But that was only supposed to be part of the recent forecasts; how long have I been unconscious? _

Anna let her left hand thumb run over her fingers, until it reached her ring finger. She rubbed at the skin around the nails. _The most recent bleeding spot has stopped, but the skin on the edge of the spot is still swollen slightly: I've been out somewhere between 15 and 24 hours then. Wait, how?_

She finally opened her eyes, her vision blurred so that everything was only distinguished by clouds of color. The gray light streaming in from windows was soft enough that it didn't immediately burn her eyes, but the artificial warehouse lights stung at the upper area of vision. She saw a gray figure standing over her, pulling the glass away from her lips. Pulling her head back and away, she was aware of a faint spinning sensation.

_Slight nausea: it would be worse if I had been hit in the head, so it's most likely due to a decreased intake of oxygen. Decreased breathing and lung action, blurred vision, numbness: chloroform. He used chloroform on me. But chloroform isn't supposed to last more than five hours…_

"You're finally awake," a deep, rough voice finally broke through the fog. It had a unique, swimming quality to it: yet another effect of the drug. "Sorry about the chloroform, but you were making such a fuss when I was trying to say hello in the warehouse. I only meant for you to be out for a few hours."

The figure turned its back to her and walked over to a table across the warehouse. Anna blinked multiple times, trying to clear the blurry vision before he returned. Ever so slowly, her environment became more detailed and her senses sharpened. She looked down at her body to figure out her situation: she had been right about the plastic cord tying back her arms and waist, but other than that he hadn't done a thing to her. She spotted her backpack and her bright blue coat on the chair by the table, where she heard the figure put down the glass.

There was a reasonable guess that the figure was the Doll Maker. He was a towering 6'3" man in a gray jumpsuit, no doubt the uniform for a sea-shipping company. From the back of his head, she could see the specks of silver that had begun to take over his dark hair, which combined with the slight sagging nature of his skin (working in sea-shipping put him in the sun enough to cause a visible effect) put him around mid-forties. She tried to deduce him from afar until she realized what he was doing.

Even with his back towards her, she could see his arm angled over the table, his hand hovering over some elements. His head was cocked to the side in deep contemplation as he lowered his hand and picked up a tool; Anna could hear a slight metallic ring vibrate through the air. As he made his way back to her, her memories sparked.

It was him: it was what her mind had erased from her memories twelve years ago. It was the same figure that had dragged her body away from her parents; it was the same face that had shut her in the top shelf of a closet. Every alarm in her body rang: this was the Doll Maker. She matched every feature to those in her memories. It was a stern face, his dark features reflecting no emotion. But in his eyes, it was in his eyes that Anna saw a strange excitement, a wild anticipation. She held those eyes with a defiant gaze, at the same time watching the strange tool in his hands through her peripheral vision.

The large metal clippers gave off a strange metallic sheen in the gray autumn light that streamed through the warehouse skylights. She heard his chuckle as he made his way to her back and felt her wrists being pulled away from the back of the chair. Cringing slightly at the sudden movement of her sore arms, the Doll Maker hooked the clippers between her wrists. He gave out a grunt as there was a loud snapping and popping noise that filled Anna's ears, and her arms fell limply at her sides. She felt one more tug around her waist as he just as quickly severed that cord.

"I suppose there's no reason to chain you, my dear," the Doll Maker concluded, walking back to the table and laying the clippers down. "You're a smart girl; you know you can't escape this warehouse. I'm sure you've already tried."

He was right; there was no clear way to escape the warehouse. Anna's mind resurveyed her new prison for the third time, and she could only reach the same conclusion. The narrow horizontal windows were along the top edge of the high-ceiling walls, at least twenty feet up. It was true that there were boxes strewn throughout the room, but not enough to stack them even remotely to the level needed to reach that height. The walls and floor were made of thick, impenetrable concrete that reverberated the Doll Maker's footsteps with an empty echo. There was only one door that served as both the entrance and exit; a thick piece of metal that would be able to hold up against Anna's body weight (perhaps if she had only been a little bigger, she would have been able to knock it down). In short, escape was not an option.

"Besides," the Doll Maker continued nonchalantly, leaning against the table with a certain relaxation, "I've never had to tie up any of my dolls before. They're such good things; they know how to behave. I just have to say 'wait here,' and there they'll stay until I call them back. So desperate to please, children are. I've found that if I ask nicely enough, they'll do whatever I say. Candy works too, but even without that they'll listen to me. Why wouldn't they? I have everything to offer them. I'm the most powerful person in the room; I'm the adult."

"Where's Natasha?" Anna finally asked, abruptly breaking into the Doll Maker's nonsense.

"Oh, she speaks," he mocked of faint surprise. "I was afraid I had made you a mute. Don't worry, she's safe and sound; I promise. You've seen pictures of her, I presume. Of course you have, Natasha's already in your file." He bent down and pulled the manila file out of Anna's backpack and flipped through the photographs. "Isn't she a pretty girl? Such dark hair; it's just as soft as it looks in the photo, I can tell you that. And those blue eyes, they just pop off her face. It's rare, I'll tell you, to find such a stark contrast of features. It's a shame that she was pawned off so easily to those brutes that were called her 'foster parents.' A sex trader with a wife that turned a blind eye? Shameful, shameful; what has our government come to that it would let them take such a beautiful—"

"You still haven't answered my question: Where is Natasha?" Anna snapped.

"Don't be so boring, my doll," Anna flinched noticeably in her chair when she heard the pet name, "that's for me to know and for Sherlock Holmes to find out."

"That wasn't the deal, Doll Maker. A hand for a hand; I'm here now, let her go."

"Ah, right," the Doll Maker sighed, making his way towards the sitting girl. "I'll let her go. Sherlock and Dr. Watson will find her very soon."

"What exactly does that mean?" Anna shot up out of her chair. Although she only came up to the Doll Maker's chest, she glared hostilely at him. "I want to see her right now; where the hell is she?"

"I already told you. She's alive, my doll; I promise," he replied, tugging a strand of her hair on her shoulder and running his fingers through it. She smacked his hand away, only to have her wrist captured within his fist. She struggled, trying to break her arm from his grasp, but the chloroform still rendered her weak. He looked at the fingers on her hand with a light tut. "You really ought to take better care of yourself; your fingers are atrocious. Oh well…I have Natasha tucked away for right now, but I'll place her soon."

"Place her?" Anna called out angrily. "Place her? You are supposed to let her leave alive; a life for a life, that was what your card said."

"She will be alive, though," he said. "She will be much more alive than any other time of her life. She will be immortalized."

"You mean you'll paralyze her."

"I mean to extend her life; grant immortality."

"Your idea of life is wrong then."

"No, Elise, _your_ idea of life is wrong," the Doll Maker boasted. "Do you really think a beating heart is what determines living a life? There are plenty of people in this world with beating hearts, but they aren't living. They breathe, they think, they act, but they are not alive; they are mindless drones working simply to survive the utterly disgusting, cruel nature of reality. These children are pure now, but look at the people they are surrounded by: sex traders, drug users, prostitutes, gamblers, alcoholics. These children are doomed to fail, to enter the same pointless existence as the rest of the world, acting day by day in an attempt not to drown in the sickness of things. I am saving these children; I am allowing them to transcend this incompetent life, to remain as pure and simple as they are now. They are free; they are alive. That is exactly how I will leave Natasha: alive."

There was a pause as Anna stared at the Doll Maker. He was utterly insane. His eyes were wide and wild, ravishing with some sort of excitement. His hands shook with passion, a chilling grin spreading across his mouth. Anna looked at his neck and saw a singular vein sticking out, its raised outline quickening with a faster heartbeat. His breathing rate was heavier than moments ago. He enjoyed this theory of his, and delineating it to Anna only made him more determined. Every feeling that had been compacted in her mind for the past twelve years was brought to the forefront of her thoughts: disgust, revolt, hatred. She fought back the urge to outright attack the madman. Had she still had her gun, she would have shot him right then and there.

"My name is Anna," she snarled at him, finally tearing her wrist from his hand.

"There is no running from your past, Elise," the Doll Maker returned. "You remain in fear, but I don't understand why. I wanted to help you twelve years ago; you ran away. "

"You killed my parents and tried to kidnap me; and then shoved me in the back of the closet, if I remember correctly. You would have killed me just like every other child, and you expect me to appreciate that?"

"Salvation, my dear Elise, salvation. It's a shame you missed your opportunity then; I'm here to offer it once more."

"Sherlock Holmes saved me."

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes interrupted your chance at freedom."

"He'll find me," Anna said coldly.

"No he won't," the Doll Maker defied. "You see, I mean to make him suffer for breaking my patterns, and I know what he hates the most: losing. I'm not playing around with the detective for nothing; this is only the beginning of his punishment, but more on that later. I have something else I need to deal with: my little Girl Without Hands."

With that, the Doll Maker turned away from Anna and strode to the door. "I'll be back soon, my doll. We'll continue this conversation then." He walked out, and there was the scraping of a key and the dull thud of a bolt locking shut. Anna was alone.

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, finally allowing her body to react to the situation. She collapsed onto the floor, her legs still weak from the chloroform. Her body shook involuntarily, only amplified by the adrenaline running through her veins and into her thudding heart. It was only a physical reaction, a shock to her system. Her sudden introduction to the madman whom she had been after for the past twelve years had left her body weak. However, her mind raced on.

Suddenly she smirked, looking down at what was in her left hand. There were scraps of paper and receipts with bits of scribbles and numbers all over them, all of which were from the Doll Maker's right pocket. While the Doll Maker was distracted with holding Anna's right hand, she had been able to reach into his pocket without him noticing. Going over to the table that the Doll Maker had set her file down on, she grabbed the file and flipped through the papers quickly until she found what she was looking for.

Those receipts would allow her to be able to trace his most recent path, probably starting from about two weeks ago. That was where she would start; that would be how she would predict his next move for Sherlock. That would have to be how she would help Natasha; he would most likely place her somewhere he was somewhat familiar with. Flipping through the receipts, she mentally noted the locations.

Reaching for her backpack, she searched through its contents. It was obvious the Doll Maker had gone through it; the only thing that remained was a spare set of clothes and her makeup. He had obviously taken her cell phone and her gun, but he had even gone so far as to take her pens and paper. Suddenly, she remembered: the antidote. Heart once again racing, she tore through her bag and found the small tear in the inner part of the fabric. Probing her fingers through the invisible hole, she felt the cool glass still there.

_At least I still have that, but how do I communicate with Sher—_Anna grimaced in pain as one of her fingernails reached a new depth into the skin of her left middle finger. Blood already was beading around the scratch, and the deep red was only growing deeper in the dank room. It began to streak ever so slightly outside the boundary of skin, flowing from the pool it had begun to form on top of the gash itself.

She took one long look at her left fingers before biting down hard on the edge of her thumb.


	23. Chapter 23: Delivery Men

**Chapter 23: Delivery Men**

"Sherlock, John, what exactly are you two doing up here?"

Molly gasped lightly as she stood in the doorway of the 221B Baker Street flat looking at the chaos that was ensuing. The early afternoon light illuminated the living room in a bright golden autumn light. Books were sitting open all across the living room, and even more pieces of paper and brochures were strewn about on all the furniture. Dirty cups were placed on every flat surface available (which, in all honesty, wasn't very much). From where she was standing, Molly even thought she saw specks of blood on the carpets. At second glance, she realized it was indeed dried blood.

Up on the mantle was a large cork board, with pictures of the twelve children tacked on all over a map of the UK. Red string crisscrossed the watery blue areas of the map, and as she moved farther into the living room she noticed there were twelve large blue stickers dotting some of the green land. In black sharpie, London had been circled three times by an impatient hand, probably Sherlock's, and a white string traced from the black circle to a larger inlet of the London area. More colored tacks and bits of strings graced the inlet, as well as three small photos. Molly recognized the first one immediately, as Clara had been admitted into her morgue only a few days ago. There was another one of a small girl who looked very much like Clara. But what drew her attention was the small, wallet-sized one of a vaguely familiar blue coat. Drawing in closer, Molly squinted—

"John, toss me another pen," Sherlock called out from the kitchen, making Molly jolt with a bit of surprise; she had been so absorbed by the cork board that she had almost forgotten why she had gone to Sherlock's flat to begin with. The contents of the paper bag in her hand bounced off each other with plastic clinks and a slosh of liquids.

"Um, I don't think John's here," Molly turned and started to say meekly, but the sound of heavy footsteps came through the door.

"Sherlock, I'm not getting you another—oh, Molly, I didn't hear you come in. What are you doing here?" John smiled as best he could through his irritation and fatigue. He had spent the majority of his morning reading through month to month shipping data for experimental pharmaceutical companies, not to mention catering to all of Sherlock's menial tasks. The data was an arduous enough project on its own; add Sherlock's desire for a pen and his refusal to get it himself, and it was overwhelming.

"Oh, I'm just dropping off a few things that Sherlock asked for," she replied with her usual smile and soft shrug, lifting up the paper bag and shaking it in jest. At seeing Molly's usual brightness, John couldn't help but feel his smile become just a bit more genuine. She was a saint; so devoted to Sherlock and so kind to everyone else. While he did pity the fact she would never get Sherlock's love in return, he never thought her desperate; he owed her too much for saving his friend's life when he fell from the top of St. Bart's. In truth, she was a saint.

"John, toss me another pen," Sherlock repeated demandingly. John made his way back to his desk, stepping over the bloody carpet and tossing the pen over to Sherlock. Sherlock caught it and made a minor note down on his notepad before returning to his microscope.

"Hello Sherlock," Molly said brightly towards the kitchen, smiling before remembering that that was not how she had intended to greet the detective. She put on a frown instead. "I have the chemicals you asked for, but you can't just expect me to drop everything in the morgue to get these things for you. I have a job to do, you know; I'm not your delivery girl."

"Hm, yes" Sherlock replied sardonically, "But I can, in fact, expect you to drop everything in the morgue to bring these to me because you want to bring them to me." He glanced up from his microscope for a moment. "Your hair has been redone within the last thirty minutes, your makeup has been retouched, you changed tops twice before coming over (after retouching the makeup, mind you; there's powder on your blouse), you—"

"Sherlock, that's enough," Watson interrupted upon hearing the conversation from his desk and laptop. He wasn't going to listen to Sherlock abuse her. "Sorry Molly; he's just been having an off day."

"I have not been having an 'off day,'" Sherlock spat. "I'm just waiting for something interesting to happen; something that will give me more data."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Molly rebelled as she placed the paper bag on the kitchen counter, "but I'm not going to run around delivering chemicals for you; I thought you had another girl doing that."

There was a pause, and a tense silence filled the air. Sherlock glared at her indiscriminately and snapped back to his microscope while John stared down into his cup of tea. It was unsettling how quickly everything changed, and Molly, sensing the shift, looked nervously around the room. She may have been simple, but she was extremely sensitive. Sherlock being moody was normal, but it was John that alerted her to something deeper. Although he kept in constant movement, continually clicking the mouse on the laptop or bringing tea to his lips, there was something defeated about his actions. He sighed, slumping back into his chair and rubbing his face with his hands; he was distraught, very distraught. Glancing back at the cork board, Molly remembered the blue coat.

"What happened to that girl?" She asked quietly, her lips sinking into a small frown. Another few moments of pause went by.

"She's been kidnapped," John replied, turning away from his laptop screen and finally breaking the silence. His forehead creased in concern. "She was taken by the same man who took Clara."

Molly paled and her eyes widened. She remembered looking at Clara's corpse only a few days ago; the cold body in perfect condition. She had never seen anything like it before. "Oh my god," she gasped. "How—I mean, what are you going to do?"

"Sherlock!"

There was a slam at the door downstairs, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps jumping up the stairs. A second later, Lestrade stood in the doorframe. John and Molly both looked at him attentively, surprised by his sudden appearance. He was breathing heavily, clutching at some heavy-stocked photos in his hand; whatever was in his hand was important enough to have him skipping steps.

"Lestrade, bring them here," Sherlock ordered from the kitchen. The Detective Inspector gave the others a nod as he strode over to the kitchen, where Sherlock held an outstretched hand expectantly. He placed the photos in his palm.

"Warehouses 5 and 18 were empty," Lestrade began, "I mean completely empty; they had been emptied out by their owners nearly a year ago. Checked out both those owners, and they have alibis for yesterday's kidnapping. However, Warehouse 12 had more to it. We did a forensics search for evidence, but there wasn't really enough for personal identification. No fingerprints, no footprints, no hair samples; nothing. We took some photos—"

Sherlock blurred the Inspector's comments out of his thoughts.

_Photo One: general layout shot. Boxes stacked and held closed by ropes, the same rope fibers as was found on the Doll Maker's first blade when he inscripted Clara's mother judging by the rotation lines. Boxes are generally unidentifiable: standard wood, wood that wouldn't be able to keep out any moisture. Whatever is actually in the box has a secondary environmental protection factor._

_Photo Two: items within in the boxes. _He studied the white rectangular plastic containers that were stacked upon one another. Closer to the top, one of the containers were open, showing a needle and multiple little vials.

"Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted, "do you have one of the vials?"

"Right; here you are," Lestrade set one on the table counter, where Sherlock snatched it up and held it towards the light.

_Clear serum: unidentifiable at first glance. Calcium is clear in a soluble solution, so that makes sense. No label: either one person made this for themselves, or this was mass produced in secrecy. Judging by the number of plastic containers, it is the latter. Why would an experimental pharmaceutical company be mass-producing a compound that is not yet allowed on the market? Unless there is enough underground demand for the compound…_

_Plastic containers: the only identification on them is a serial number. 756993524. Each one begins in a 756 code for location purposes…_his mind raced through every company tracking number he remembered (which was all of them). _Lancaster Pharmaceuticals: that's it. _

_Photo Three: another shot of boxes. However, there is something on the ground beside the box. _Sherlock pulled the photo closer to his face. _A bare foot: main imprint remains, but slight extension of shine; smudged by a more recent source (damn Forensics, those imbeciles ruining everything without even observing). Footprint created of accumulated dust and oils as seen through it's pale gray shine, six inches long and four inches at its widest._

"Natasha Bolstead was here," Sherlock blurted, cutting Lestrade off once again. "This is where the Doll Maker kept her. Really Lestrade; I asked you not to let forensics ruin anything, and they nearly wiped this footprint away. Have them watch where they're walking next time."

"The Doll Maker was there?" Lestrade asked, grabbing the third photo and scrutinizing it to find the smudged footprint. "Oh god, we must have just missed them."

"Don't be silly," Sherlock replied bluntly, "look at the amount of dust settled around the oils; they've been gone for at least two days; now that he has Anna, he'll be placing Natasha soon."

"What is that?" Molly asked, nodding towards the vial from afar.

"Molly, do try and act like a scientist; it's a serum."

"What's in it?" she tried again meekly.

"I don't know… John, look up the shipping data for Lancaster Pharmaceuticals, especially within the last business quarter. They'll be missing some things."

"Is that serum one of them?" Lestrade butted in.

"Of course…" Sherlock began before mentally drifting away in his thoughts.

Molly and Lestrade stared at him curiously, the only sound in room being John's tapping on his keyboard. They watched the consulting detective's focus shift to the microscope, where he simply stared for a while.

"Lestrade," he suddenly returned, "go to every port that has received Lancaster's shipments and find a list of people attending there. Also, run a trace on this number."

Sherlock handed him a slip of paper. The Inspector looked at it, a strange string of numbers in a scrawl. "If you don't mind me asking," he commented sarcastically, "what number is this?"

"It doesn't matter; just do it. Molly, I'll text you if I need you. Now both of you, leave."

"Now hold on," Lestrade protested. "You can't just kick us out, Sherlock; not without explaining what exactly you're planning to—"

"Yes I can," he rebutted, herding Molly and Lestrade to the door. "I need space to think. Get out." With Molly's small voice trying to say goodbye, he slammed the door in their faces and turned immediately to John. Watson looked up from his laptop to see the tall figure striding over with a dark look in his eyes, his forehead clenched in thought.

"John, give me your laptop."

"No, Sherlock," he argued. "I'm busy looking at Lancaster's shipping records. What was the number you had Lestrade trace?"

"There are more important things to deal with right now," Sherlock countered. "Give me your laptop."

"I just said I was using it; I'm doing exactly what you told me to. Look, you didn't need to be so rude to Lestrade and Molly. Quite frankly—"

"Shut up John," Sherlock interrupted, simply lifting the laptop up from in front of John and twisting it towards himself. "I can't have Lestrade here to do this," he continued as he began to type madly into the screen.

"What does that mean?" With the lack of an answer, John kept talking. "Anyways, don't you have a serum to figure out?"

"I won't be able to figure out the formula of an experimental serum unless I have data on how it was developed," Sherlock replied vaguely.

"And how do you propose getting that?"

"By reading the development files."

"This is an experimental pharmaceutical company; they're not going to list their development files anywhere within public reach."

"No," Sherlock muttered, "no, they won't; which is why I'll have to go get them myself."

"Hang on," John paused. "Go get them yourself? Sherlock, you're a consulting detective; they are not just going to hand you private files on these kinds of things. Besides, you don't even know where they're kept; the only things accessible to the general public are the production bases. You need to find the research bases, which are probably one of the best kept secrets in the entire United Kingdom."

"I'm working on it." Sherlock kept typing at increasing speeds, his forehead clenched more and more as he continued.

"Working on it?" John's eyes widened as he realized what exactly that phrase entailed. "Sherlock, you're not hacking into—"

"I told you Lestrade couldn't be here for this," he remarked as he pressed one final key. John's laptop made a strange ding sound, and multiple pdf. files filled the screen, each one providing a detailed layout of a facility, mapped out with serial numbers and a latitude-longitude key. A grin spread across Sherlock's face as he leapt out of his chair and over to the door.

John gaped at him. "How did you do that? What exactly did you just do?" He grabbed the mouse and scrolled through the documents. "Oh my god; this is not supposed to be accessible from my laptop…"

"Come on John," he motioned, "we're going."

"Where?"

"Dartford!"


	24. Chapter 24: Break-Ins

**Chapter 24: Break-Ins **

"Hello, Mycroft Holmes; I've heard your name far too many times to only be meeting you now. And you are?"

"Health Inspector Greg Lestrade," Watson replied, momentarily flashing a Detective badge to the wane scientist standing before him, careful to hide the id photo with his thumb and the word "detective" with this forefinger.

The black-haired scientist cocked his head in slight disapproval, tilting his eyes down over his glasses and turning to Holmes. "Sir, I appreciate your interest in our research here, but I must inform you that Lancaster Pharmaceuticals' research labs are exempt from inspections, as part of the Scientific Studies—"

"Oh, don't worry about him," Sherlock remarked with his utmost self-important air. "He's just accompanying me; he won't cause any trouble."

"No trouble at all," John consolidated, nodding to the scientist. The scientist cautiously looked at him before turning on his heel and motioning the two of them to follow. After breaking into the Baskerville Military Base, this "secret" research facility would be simple. John glanced at Sherlock with a grin; of course he had managed to pickpocket both Lestrade and Mycroft since then, giving them both new identities. Sherlock slyly smiled back at him: this would be far too easy.

"I'm Dr. Kentwell, Head Researcher of the Muscular Division" the scientist began, taking them through the maze of white walls that made up the lab. "I'm glad you are so interested in the Dartford facilities, Mr. Holmes; through your support, and the support of the UK government," he added nonchalantly, "we are hoping to achieve so much more than just theoretical medicines. Your investment will expand the scope of our abilities."

"Yes, yes" Sherlock mumbled disinterestedly, again in a strange air of self-importance; an obvious, somewhat ironic, portrayal of his brother. John had to try his hardest not to laugh. "We are hoping you can help us, Dr. Kentwell."

"Ah, of course Mr. Holmes; I can help you, assuming you can help me." Dr. Kentwell patted his lab coat pocket and pulled out a large set of keys. Stopping in the middle of the hallway, he unlocked his office door, a huge block of impenetrable metal, and motioned them to enter. Once in the room, they each chose their prospective seats; Sherlock and John sat in two black plastic chairs as Dr. Kentwell settled into his own oversized swivel chair behind his large desk. He took off his strange spectacles as he grandly waved over at his extensive bookshelf. Rather than books, however, there were manila folders of all kinds, each bulging with extensive paperwork.

"This is where I keep all the, erm, important files, shall we say; why keep them locked away in cabinets where their glories are hidden when they can shine in view? Don't worry; they are perfectly safe in here. No one can break in to my office, much less this facility; they're safer than any file cabinet in the world. Now, let us discuss business. You were talking about making a deal?"

"Ah yes, about that," Sherlock began as he stood up from his chair. "I believe you may have misunderstood me when I said that. We are just looking to study a certain compound you have been experimenting with. I believe it is under code 993; we'll be taking that and be on our way."

"I don't think so, Mr. Holmes," the scientist replied. "You aren't going to be allowed to take any of these files out with you. I'm afraid they will have to remain here; company rules."

"You don't seem to be a rule-following man, Dr. Kentwell," Sherlock stated, making the doctor cock his head once more.

"I don't follow; you came to me with this deal, not the other way around. I am perfectly willing to accept the funds, and no one will know."

"That wasn't what I was referring to."

"Then what deal are you here to make?"

Sherlock impatiently broke out of the mock act (he had no idea how Mycroft could remain so placid around such ignorant people), making the scientist jump at the sudden shift in character. "You people are ridiculous. It's simple: give me file 993 or I sell you out to the authorities."

Dr. Kentwell scoffed, looking at Sherlock incredulously. "Sell me out to the authorities? What in God's name are you talking about?" He grinned at the joke, looking to John for support. John only returned with a glare, making the Doctor's eyes sink in a strange panic. "What in God's name are you talking about?" he asked again, this time with anger. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Who I really am is of no relevance to you, and I already told you what I want," Sherlock replied bluntly. "As to what I am talking about, I am referring to your practice of selling biological weaponry to the terrorist group in Northern Ireland; a minor crime in my eyes, but one that, if I recall correctly, is punished heavily by the government today."

"You have no evidence!" Dr. Kentwell cried defensively, not even bothering to deny the claims. Panic brimmed in his eyes. Even John could tell this scientist, deep down, was really a simpleton. This fact, of course, could only further aggravate Sherlock.

"Actually, I do," Sherlock defied, glancing at him up and down. "It's written all over you. The place where you wear your Ireland allegiance pin left a slight difference in shade on your collar. That watch you're wearing: made in Ireland. The ring on your right hand: made in Ireland. Both those items are far beyond your income range, and you value them judging by the pristine state they are still in. The money the group gives you can't leave Ireland (that would be too suspicious), so you spend it all there. On your desk are files with the access code 768 poking out: code for biological weaponry from the Lancaster production. Oh don't look so shocked, of course I know that Lancaster produces biological weapons for the government; where the government is involved, Mycroft is involved; where Mycroft is involved, I know a fair deal. Lancaster has dealt with him before, which is why you have been so willing to accept his, or should I say _my_, offer for a deal. Back to the point: you sell the weapons, the terrorists give you the cash which you spend right then and there. There's plenty more if you'd like me to—"

"I think that's enough," John interrupted. "We are on a little bit of a time crunch, remember."

Dr. Kentwell stared at him in shock. He then sank into his chair, holding his face in his hands. "Please, I'll give you whatever you want," he begged, "just don't tell anyone."

"File 993 now," Sherlock said coldly. Dr. Kentwell slowly got up out of his chair and went to his bookshelf. Handing it to John, he resigned back to his desk and sank back down.

"That wasn't so hard, was it? Thank you for your cooperation, Doctor," Sherlock sneered. With that, he and John left.

"Biological Chemical Warfare; did you know about that going in?" John annotated.

"No, but wasn't it obvious?"

"Jesus Sherlock, I knew Mycroft was big in the government defense area, but I didn't know he was financing that."

"He's financing that as a preemptive defense; know the technology now, be able to fight it in the future. I doubt Mycroft would ever even consider using it. He may run the government, but he's certainly not foolish enough to ever put it in use. Preemptive."

"But still…and now it's getting into the hands of the IRA; you aren't going to let him get away with that, are you Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

"Of course not," he replied coolly, pulling out his phone. "I've already contacted the proper authorities." John glanced at the phone and saw an incoming response from Mycroft.

"Again, you are amazing, Sherlock," John mumbled to Sherlock as they left the Dartford facilities.

"Again, you are too quick to praise, John. That was simple observation. "

xxxxxxxxxx

"Sherlock, what exactly does that file tell you? Sherlock?"

It was still light by the time they got back to 221B Baker Street. The ride back from Dartford had consisted of Sherlock reading the file in depth, shushing John at any attempt to understand the material. Once through the entrance door, Sherlock had bounded up the stairs before Watson. By the time the doctor had reached the top of the steps into their flat, he saw Sherlock straightening back up; the research file in one hand while his attention was placed on an item in the other.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, already knowing what it would be. He felt the color fade from his skin as he thought about Anna and what she was going through. Had he really almost forgotten the fact that Anna had been kidnapped? It was a sad prospect, but even John had to admit that with the adventures of the day, he had been distracted. He strode over to the consulting detective and pulled the card out of his hand, a deep chill vibrating down his spine.

_She waits in the Garden for her prince. _

"The Royal Gardens," Sherlock blurted out, immediately pulling out his phone to text Lestrade. "She's in the Kensington Palace Gardens." However, there was a ring as the phone alerted him of an incoming message. John watched as Sherlock's eyes darted across the screen and then glanced upwards: he was mentally calculating something. The brief pause worried the doctor slightly; hardly anything could ever distract Sherlock from alerting the incompetent detective from new evidence. Whatever was on that text had to have been very important. Suddenly his fingers flew to life, the keys of the phone clicking and tapping before the whoosh of a sent message:

_Kensington Palace Gardens: look for a little girl under pear tree. Meet us there. Send ambulance as precaution –SH _

Sherlock's lean figure remained still, as if in deep thought. His cool eyes focused, leaving a chill in his companion. There was something wrong, something amiss.

"Sherlock," John broke in through the pause, "let's go; we can meet Lestrade there if we get a cab right now. We need to hurry."

"No."

"No?" Watson cried incredulously. "Why not? Natasha might still be alive; we have the serum's formula now, we might be able to help—"

"Not 'we'; you." Sherlock cried impatiently in return. John stared at him, eyes clenched in confusion, to which the consulting detective handed him the development file in his hand. "You're the doctor; go get Natasha. Keep her alive long enough to get to St. Bart's; call me when you get there."

"Hang on, where are you going?"

Sherlock ran into the flat, and John heard the rustle of paper and glassware as Sherlock rummaged through the desk. There was grumble about a missing pen before the detective was back at the door. "There's something I need to see first," he replied vaguely.

"What's going on?"

Sherlock turned and strode down the stairs of 221B, his coat flowing out behind him. "I'll meet you there!" he called out, his voice trailing his figure. John heard the door slam shut below him. Taking a deep breath, he tried to process what had just happened. Moments ago, he had just been ready to go into the flat and take tea; now he was going to collect another dead child. _No, _he corrected himself, _not a dead child; another dying child I can't save. _He grimaced at his own helplessness, visualizing Clara's cold body once more. The Doll Maker truly was a monster.

With another deep breath and a light jump, John ran down the stairs and out onto the street, flailing his arms out to get a yellow cab. One finally pulled over, allowing John to swing the door open and call "Kensington Palace Gardens! Hurry!"

xxxxxxxxxx

_Traced the number to 52 E—Lane. Who's number is that?—Lestrade_

Sherlock read the text one more time before looking up at the one of the warehouses in front of him. The sound of the water lapping against the docks meshed with the cold nature of the environment: the gray cloudy sky, the gray concrete walls, the gray metallic door. Walking up to the door, he was not surprised in the least that there was no electronic lock keypad. The warehouse looked too old to possess such advancements in technology, so he instead placed his hand on the cool metal doorknob, jiggling it to confirm that it was locked. Leaning his shoulder against the door, he pushed lightly, testing the resistance before shoving his entire body against the metal. The first shove made the doorframe give inwards; the second gave a loud shutter; the third knocked the entire thing in.

Sherlock flipped the switch along the side wall, and the artificial lights flickered on above him, releasing a faint buzz. The air was damp, full of dust and moisture that thickened the atmosphere. Wooden boxes littered the room, piling up along the concrete walls. Stepping further into the warehouse, his footsteps reverberated towards the high ceiling. Bits of dust floated through the air, only serving to enhance the solemn feeling of emptiness. Glancing at the layout, Sherlock took notice of a singular chair, accompanied by an empty table.

Making his way to the chair, Sherlock took notice of the thinner patches of dirt and dust on the concrete floor. _Someone has been here recently. Judging by the two general sizes of the patches, there are two sets of footprints_, _most likely one man and one woman. No drag marks: both were moving voluntarily. There are more of the smaller patches: the woman was moving more than the man; pacing around in a more circular pattern; she was anxious. _There was no doubt in his mind: the Doll Maker had been there. Anna Huntington had been there.

Of course he had known that; the only two people who could possibly have Anna's cell phone were Anna and her kidnapper. The Doll Maker would obviously have taken her phone away; it was a risk to assume that he still had it at all, but it was the part of the plan that she had accounted for. Huntington had made a sensible prediction: the Doll Maker wouldn't leave her until he absolutely had to. The only reason he would leave her was to place Natasha. As long as she could keep him in one area for a certain amount of time, the Doll Maker wouldn't be able to properly rid of the phone until later. It was only a matter of having Lestrade trace the number before the Doll Maker disposed of it. Fortunately, Lestrade didn't recognize the number; that was why Sherlock had to wait so long to begin the initial trace: if he gave Lestrade the number too soon, there was the possibility of him piecing the number's purpose and, knowing the Detective Inspector, another attempt at an ambush. Another ambush would do no good; Sherlock needed a chance to analyze the Doll Maker's hiding spots without warning signs.

Judging by the state of the warehouse, the Doll Maker had recently moved. However, he hadn't expected anyone to find this particular warehouse and link it to him; he wouldn't be so careful if he felt secure. There had to be something there; there had to be something the Doll Maker missed. Sherlock sat in the chair taking in Huntington's visual perspective, allowing his mind to fill in the empty gaps.

_She starts in the chair, most likely facing the table. What was on the table? _He got up and strode across the warehouse, counting the number of steps it would take for her to get there. _Cheap plastic table beginning to bend down towards the middle: any pressure put on it would leave an indentation. There are slight dips in the plastic from where something blunt was dropped down on it; the depth indicates a metal object. _He ran his fingers along the surface of the plastic. _No writing patterns: Huntington didn't write anything, but the footprint patches indicate that she was around this table at some point. The patches go once around the table and—oh. _

Sherlock bent down onto one knee at two singular brown dots, followed by a thin brush stroke of the same substance. Pulling out his pocket magnifying glass, he blinked at it once or twice. Scratching at them with his fingernail, he instantly knew: _blood_. _The diameter of the blood splatter means it was released from….the height of Anna's hand when she is scratching her fingers. But she never lets the blood drip onto the floor; the depth of the cut to produce such a large drop of blood is much more than her fingernails alone can achieve. Not to mention she's too careful, too meticulous. Unless this was her being meticulous. _

Instantly, Sherlock looked towards the direction of the room that the brush stroke blood pointed towards, scanning the edges of the wooden boxes until a dull white flashed in his vision. It poked out from the edge of the brown, certainly not meant to be seen unless someone was looking for it. Striding over to the back wall of the warehouse, he bent down and pulled out the small folded rectangle that had been wedged between two boxes. Slowly unfolding it, Sherlock's eyes squinted with interest. _So this is her idea of helping…more than enough. _

He immediately recognized the map of the UK that had been used in the Doll Maker file; it must have been Anna's copy. There were the dashes of black ink tracing the Doll Maker's potential paths and large black stars where each of the other thirteen children had been kidnapped, printed on the paper from the photocopier. But on the inlet map of London, there was something that immediately caught Sherlock's eye: red dots of blood, each carefully placed over a certain location, one of which was the Kensington. He knew what he was looking at: the Doll Maker's trail. Where there was a trail, there would be an indicator. There were indicators. Folding the paper back into its small rectangle, he tucked it into his coat pocket.

He knew where he had to go next. He strode back towards the front end of the warehouse, stopping at the table only to scrawl something on three slips of paper. Suddenly, his phone rang, breaking the damp silence of the abandoned warehouse; John was calling.

"John," Sherlock greeted bluntly.

"Sherlock," John answered quickly, "where the hell are you?"

"Are you at St. Bart's?"

"I am; where are _you_? I got Natasha. You said you'd be here."

"How is she?"

"Still alive, and she still has her hands, thank god. She's almost halfway through the blood transplant," Watson replied desperately. "She's about twenty minutes away from where Clara reached before her body failed. Sherlock, I need you here now; you need to tell me how to help her."

"Go to the lab," Sherlock commanded, putting down his pen and tapping his finger on the table.

"What?" he cried incredulously. "I need to stay with her; why aren't you here?"

"Go to the lab now, John" Sherlock repeated, opening up his mind palace and recalling the development file he had just taken from Dartford. Mind racing, he began to chemically develop things in his own mind.

_Muscle paralysis…calcium excess…increased absorption rate…no obvious enzymes or catalysts…inhibited ADP—wait._

"John!" Sherlock called out excitedly. "Give her an injection of synthetic ADP. Then stimulate the hypothalamus, preferably with some sort of electric current."

"Sherlock, where is—"

"Synthetic ADP is in the second cabinet, on the third shelf, labeled with ADP inhibitor."

"That makes no sense…" John mumbled under his breath. Sherlock heard him over the phone anyways.

"That doesn't matter. I made the ADP when I was working with the ADP inhibitor; I just put what I made in the inhibitor vial, ignore the obvious contradiction. Have you found it yet?"

"Wait, you've had this compound ready?" John thought back to the only time Sherlock could have made it—the night before Natasha was kidnapped. "Why didn't you mention that?"

"Because I needed the development files to be sure it would work, to ensure I wasn't missing anything. But that's irrelevant; have you found it yet?"

"I think so."

"Good. Now add fifteen drops of the blue solution in the vial next to it."

"Okay," John mumbled, struggling to hold the phone up to his ear with his shoulder, freeing his hands to fumble with the vials and bottles.

"Are you done yet?"

"Give me a minute!" he snapped as he counted the drops under his breath. "…fourteen…fifteen; there we go."

"Now add that to the girl's fluids."

"Yeah, but Sherlock…" John said hesitantly.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock interrupted coldly.

"Is this going to work?" John's body was already hurrying out of the lab and back to Natasha. This appeared to be another false hope; if this didn't work, she would be dead.

"We'll find out."

Sherlock hung up the phone and took one more look around the warehouse before gathering the cards of paper he had written on and striding through the broken down door. He knew what he had to do next: play the Doll Maker's game.


	25. Chapter 25: I Know Everything

**Chapter 25: I Know Everything **

…_where am I? _

When Anna woke up, she was in darkness. In the silence, there was a hallow echo of still air. Her head spun in five different directions at once, a familiar nausea swirling around her. Giving off a small groan of stiffness, she took in a deep breath of stuffy air before hacking heavily. She grasped at her chest and throat, trying to subside the coughing, but it persisted with incredible force; she could barely breathe. Suddenly she stopped, instead covering her face with her hands and breathing through her fingers. She needed to think; she needed to remain calm, remember who she was. Mentally assessing her physical state, she came down to a solution that didn't surprise her at all.

_The Doll Maker—chloroform again. _

Closing her eyes, she thought back to the last thing she could remember through the discombobulating sensation._ I had just stashed the map away in the back of the warehouse. He came in: _

"_We're leaving. Come on now." _

"_Where's Natasha?" _

"_Out there for the world to see. Don't worry about her anymore; she's free. Not even your detective and his friend can claim her now." _

_Oh god, Natasha. She's dead, I couldn't—stop. You don't know that; you don't know anything. Maybe Sherlock got to her first. Regardless, you of all people know she is better off dead than alive. There is nothing you can do to help her; stay calm, and think. Stay calm, or he wins. What happened?_

_I had just put my coat on; we were walking towards the door, and—that's it. He got behind me; probably drugged me then. So, where am I now? _

Opening her eyes, she remained in pitch black. Pulling her arms up in front of her, she felt cool concrete against her hands. A cold sweat broke out as she pressed her hands all along the surface surrounding her; it was almost all concrete. Still turning, she felt a change in texture; a smoother surface ringed with the light that seeped into the box she appeared to be in. Her hands immediately grasped around for a door handle; while she felt screws in a rectangular shape, there was no handle. She was locked in from the outside. The cold sweat changed into a trembling panic as she pushed against the door; it wasn't even shifting against her weight. The door wouldn't budge.

"No…no, no, no, no," she mumbled under her breath in a low whisper. Her breathing quickened again, making her even dizzier than before. Falling backwards to lean on her lower spine, she felt the walls closing in on her in the darkness. It was her worst nightmare; she was back in a god-forsaken closet. Only in the nightmare, the Doll Maker would come and pull her out and she would wake up. This time, though, she couldn't wake up.

She heard heavy echoing footsteps approach the door. She closed her eyes and waited for the click of a lock, but there was none. Only the creak of the door hinges, and a bright streak of light flowed in, leaving a deep red against her eyelids.

"Oh, sorry about that," a masculine voice said quietly. "I thought there was a door handle on this side; I didn't mean to lock you in. Come on now, let's get you up."

Anna opened her eyes, straining to see against the glaring artificial lights hanging from the ceiling as two shadowy arms pulled her out of the closet. For a moment, she thought she had heard John's voice; there was a familiar kindness, a comforting ease in the words. In that moment, she desperately wished it was him or Sherlock or Lestrade; that everything that had happened was really only a nightmare. It only took her a second to realize she was wrong.

She shook the helping hands off of her, looking defiantly into the eyes of the Doll Maker. In his beige shipping uniform, he too looked uncommonly thin. She made a quick scan of his outfit, but there was nothing to tell her about who exactly he worked for; she could only verify that he was a sea-shipping worker. His skin sagged slightly around his eyes and cheeks, plagued with the natural crow's feet and smile lines of any normal adult. The dark eyes looked her over with curiosity and excitement, or was it insanity?

Anna regained control of herself and her emotions. "I can walk," she said coldly, lying through her teeth. Her head still swam violently against the environment of the room; the chloroform was still taking its effects. He motioned to a table in the center of the room, and Anna momentarily averted her gaze from his face. It was another rickety table, where food awaited them.

"You haven't eaten; please," he motioned again, "join me. We can continue our conversation." When she only stared at him suspiciously, he took the initiative and strode over to the table himself. She watched his every move, noticing only one thing: he was limping. It was a slight limp, barely noticeable unless one was looking directly at his ankle. His shoulders bared themselves straight; his weight never shifted, even with the change in step. Sherlock was right; this had to be a recurring limp. But what was causing it?

Anna straightened her back and gracefully made her way to the table, surveying the new environment. _Smaller warehouse with no windows this time; probably a more personal warehouse for urbanites to put furniture in, meaning I'm closer to the city. Boxes still everywhere; same set up, same gray color, same situation. I still can't escape unless I break through the doors. Doors are made with metal; there's no chance of me breaking them down myself. In short, I'm still stuck. I'll have to think of something, and soon. _Taking the seat across from the Doll Maker, the two of them simply stared at each other in silence. He watched as she finally picked up a fork and took a bite of the pasta in front of her.

"I take it you're hungry," he commented as he picked up his own food. "You haven't eaten in two days, Elise."

Anna held back a distraught sigh; two days had already passed. Had Sherlock even found the map at all? She visually imagined the inlet she had marked for the consulting detective, trying to predict where the Doll Maker had moved her now; she could only think of two possibilities that were farther towards the city, neither of them anywhere someone would spontaneously find her. If she were going to escape, it would have to be by her own means.

All she could do now was bide time; keep the Doll Maker distracted enough to give Sherlock a fighting chance. That was all she could ever do; it was what she and Sherlock had discussed as they attempted to plan the future. As she watched him eat from across from her, she tried to deduce his character; but the chloroform fogged her thoughts, blurring the fine details around him. Everything seemed duller, faded with some sort of gloss, making it almost impossible to think straight. Never had she felt so mentally vulnerable, so unable, under his wild gaze.

Breaking the echoing, empty silence that reverberated across the warehouse walls, she tested her voice. It was weak at first, shaky with sudden usage, but she spoke loud enough for him to hear. "Where are we?"

She got no answer from the tall man sitting across from her. "What happened to Natasha?"

"You already know the answer to that," he said boldly, still not looking up from his plate. "I placed her in the Kensington Palace Gardens. But you already knew that."

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Why do you keep drugging me? You never drugged the other children."

"Well, most of my children are pretty obedient. I've never had to drug them; they wanted to come with me. They trust me."

"They followed you because you bribe them. Giving them candy is not a form of 'trust'," she scoffed.

"No, I only reward them with candy. They trust me because I offer them protection from the dark, dark world. Their parents abandoned them—"

"You killed them."

"—and I'm their guardian. Their parents were incompetent fools who put their own vices before the virtues of their children; they are the same dead or alive. But the children…I keep them safe, comfortable, alive; how could they argue with that? You, however, you don't trust me. I don't understand why; I'm protecting you from the evils of the world, yet you refuse to go along with it. You don't listen to me, you don't believe in my ideals; drugging you is the only way to keep you safe."

"How long have you been following me?" she asked, putting down her fork and letting her right hand rest on the table. "How long have you known where I was?"

"Oh, my dear," the Doll Maker said between bites. "You have no idea how long it took me to find you; especially when they tried so hard to hide you away from me. That was disappointing though, I must admit; no matter how hard a bureaucracy tries, they can't hide paper trails from the public."

Thoughts racing, she mentally paused as she pieced together what that meant. "The break in at Sussex Orphanage was you, wasn't it?" Anna's right hand reached farther out slightly, careful not to make too much of a sound as she slowly pulled back the cold handle of the dinner knife. Its metallic weight fell heavily into her lap with a muted thump.

"Of course, who else would it be? I lost you after that; I kept looking and looking, but they hid you well. How was I supposed to know they would just stick you in the Essex Orphanage? I would have come for you much sooner if I had known they stuck you in such a god forsaken place."

"How did you know I was in the Essex Orphanage?"

"Orphanages: they are the absolute worst, aren't they?" he continued, ignoring her question. "But they tell us a lot about our society; we place children, children who have done nothing wrong, children who have done nothing but lived momentarily, in these sickening wards because no one else has use for them. Their parents leave them—they steal, they do drugs, they murder, they simply die—and nobody wants them. It's a terrible feeling, being unwanted. And these children, these innocent children, are left alone to rot in solitude. And our government condones that? The government sponsors that? It's sickening; it really is. These kids are left alone, left to pay the price for their parents' mistakes, the mistakes of the adults. They are left to sit in the grime and dirt of being society's unwanted pests; and as the children grow up, they simply become these adults that pour the same burden on their own kids. It's a cycle; it's a disgusting cycle. It never ends."

"Why do you limp?" she tried again, trying to regain control. She should have been much more careful with what questions she asked, and she should have avoided the topic of children altogether (much less herself). There was something wrong, though; there was something bothering the Doll Maker. He was a meticulous character, and the fact that he was ranting was not a good sign. Something had happened; something that made him nervous.

"But what if I could stop that cycle? Let the children leave the world as pure as they came; immortalize them in the clean flesh of innocence and youth. They remain as they should: perfect—"

"Who are you?" she cried desperately, grasping the cool knife in her lap with her left hand. The knowledge of that knife was the only thing that kept her from showing any fear in her eyes.

"I am the Doll Maker," he replied, his deep voice echoing as it reverberated across the warehouse walls.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, my dear," he paused and looked up at her from his food. "But I'm not as foolish as I look."

"What do you mean?" she asked coldly. Anna's heart stopped at the wild look in his eyes; there was definitely something wrong with him. She gripped the knife tightly in her hand, feeling the cool metal slide slightly against a sweaty palm. She nudged her foot slightly, testing her physical condition. She knew that it wouldn't be long until she would regain enough bodily control to make a run for the door, but then what? It didn't matter what; there would be no point if she didn't try. The longer she stayed with the Doll Maker in this condition, the sooner she figured she would die.

"I said I'm not as foolish as I look," he replied as he leaned forward slightly in his chair. "You don't think I know you've been communicating with Sherlock?" Fighting not to visibly react, Anna's face paled slightly; did the Doll Maker know about the map? Her mind raced as every potential outcome ran through her mind; if Sherlock didn't find the map, there was absolutely no hope of reaching him again. 

The Doll Maker's hand reached down to the chest pocket of his uniform. There was a slight jingle, and Anna's ears perked up at that faint sound. Her eyes traced the outline of that pocket: _there can't be more than two or three bits of metal change in there. But that sound wasn't just made by loose change alone; there's something heavier in there. Most likely…a key. _As the change shifted, an angular piece poked out, confirming her suspicion. Anna knew what she had to do. She eyed the pocket curiously, watching his hand come out holding up a rectangular bit of paper.

"Obviously Sherlock Holmes, your 'savior,' has no regard about whether you live or not," he said, sliding the card across the cheap plastic table. She recognized the messy scrawl immediately.

_This is my move, Doll Maker. Don't keep me waiting—SH _

Anna's forehead clenched in confusion; what exactly was that supposed to do to help her? She found herself slightly relieved that Sherlock had gotten hold of her map and had been able to interpret it, but of all the possible recourses he had chosen to send a message; a non-descript, vague message. She laughed uncertainly, trying to appear in control. "Well, he certainly has a thing for flourishes."

"How did you do it?" the Doll Maker suddenly shouted furiously. "How did you do it, Elise?" Anna pulled back against her chair, preparing for the reaction; he had snapped. The rage blinded his eyes, and the veins in his neck tightened. Anna saw his fists clench around his side, and he thrust himself up from his seat, knocking the chair over. He paced back and forth along his side of the warehouse, the limp still there.

Suddenly, everything made sense to Anna: Sherlock knew the Doll Maker would react this way. That was his motive: to threaten the Doll Maker, to ruin his sense of security, to make him afraid. Because if he was afraid, he would become desperate; if he was desperate, he would make mistakes. Sherlock had begun to play the game with a new advantage, and he was certainly having fun with it. Anna saw her chance; and it was now or never. She tensed her muscles in her chair, preparing for what would happen next. She gave a dark grin at the scene in front of her, staring right at the madman across from her, provoking him with a light laughter that echoed through the warehouse.

"How the hell did Sherlock know you would be here?" the Doll Maker hollered, this time making his way down the table to Anna's chair. "How did you tell him?"

As his body towered over her, she kicked her right leg out, instantly hitting his limping leg. While the limp itself never affected his movement, it was still a pivotal weak point of his body; there was a deep cry as he fell onto one knee, ankle throbbing in pain and head spinning from the sudden fall. Anna's hair flew around her as she leapt out of the chair and wrapped the table knife around his neck, placing the cool metal against his main artery. Although she knew the knife itself was too dull to be able to make any sort of cut, it would certainly act as a threatening component to the discombobulated madman. She quickly reached into his chest pocket, swirling around some change before grasping the key shape and running.

She stumbled to the door, still affected by the chloroform that kept her in a deep dizzying haze. Fumbling to fit the key in the lock as fast as she could, her hands trembled and her heart pounded in her chest. Yet every thrust, every aim towards the lock missed. "Come on," she muttered, trying to jam the key in.

The Doll Maker tackled her, wrestling her thin body down onto the ground. She fought back, flailing her arms and feet around him with what little strength she had left. "Get off of me," she screamed as he eventually straddled her legs and pinned her arms above her head with one hand. His heavy panting matched hers; neither of them were in very good shape. Anger and hatred burned in her eyes, all her defiance glowering about her. She would fight; she would fight to the bitter end. With his free hand, he held a bit of cloth to her mouth, and Anna watched the world around her begin to go fuzzy.

"Why?" she mumbled as the bright artificial lights of the warehouse began to overtake her vision, leaving the Doll Maker as a fuzzy outline.

"Because you're the one that got away. But not for long; I know exactly what I'm going to do with you. Just be patient."

With that, the Doll Maker released her arms. He was still breathing heavily, groaning at the movement of his body; he was in pain for some reason, but it wasn't because of his ankle. She watched as his outline reached into his side pocket and pulled out a syringe. Her heart stopped momentarily; she hadn't had the chance to take the antidote yet. It was still in the bottom of her backpack. But he rolled up his own sleeve, giving a sigh of relief as he injected some of compound into his arm. Finally he stood up and moved away from her body. She turned her head to the side and watched him walk away, his limp slowly meshing into a regular motion.

_Chronic but inconsistent limping…calcium overdoses…muscle paralysis…_Anna's thoughts were fleeting as the chloroform began to take its effect. The warehouse was being overtaken by the brightness of the lights above her; she couldn't fight it anymore. _Sherlock, I know what it's for; I know what the compound is for. It's _


	26. Chapter 26: Deep Cuts

**Chapter 26: Deep Cuts **

"That poor girl."

Lestrade sat in one of the chairs in Natasha's hospital room, his elbows resting on his knees. He ran his hands through his hair with a deep sigh, closing his tired eyes for a moment with the high pitch beeps of the medical equipment providing a steady rhythm that was slowly lulling him into a trance. The antiseptic smell of that plagued hospitals burned in the back of his nostrils, numbing the pattern of his breathing. In this moment of respite, the Detective Inspector couldn't help feeling tired; the fatigue starting to weigh heavily under his eyes as he thought about the events of the day.

The crime scene had been a wreck; the press had been tipped off, and reporters swarmed the outside of the Kensington Gardens, snapping their pictures and calling out their questions. The amount of publicity the Doll Maker's return was causing was making the directors of Scotland Yard uncomfortable, but what could they do? Lestrade and his team found Natasha exactly where Sherlock said they would: under a pear tree. Outside of that, there was nothing. No footprints, no fingerprints, no identifying clues that brought them any closer to finding out who the Doll Maker was. There was only the usual taunting of the madman, with the signature trademark calling card.

"That poor girl," he muttered to himself once again as the image of the little girl's frozen body appeared in his vision. He had taken plenty of photos for Sherlock (wherever the hell he was), but pictures weren't necessary for what had been burned into his memory. This case was too close to home for him; Caroline was just about Natasha's age, and from certain angles they looked very much alike. He resisted the temptation to pick up cell phone and call home. What would be the point? Caroline was not Natasha; linking the two together made things personal. And it was personal enough already, with Anna already kidnapped as well.

"At least she's alive," a tired voice replied across from him. Lestrade looked up from his slumped position to glance at Doctor Watson, who stood over Natasha's petite body. He adjusted a few of the IVs that surrounded the bedframe before writing some notes onto a clipboard. By the time John had reached the Royal Gardens and fought his own way through the crowd of reporters, the paramedics had begun to carry Natasha into the ambulance. Since then, he had never left the little girl's side, other than the visit to the lab to retrieve the compound Sherlock commanded of him.

"Yeah," Lestrade replied in agreement. "Erm, how is she?"

John took one last cursory scan over the clipboard. "She's stable now; her heart rate is steady, her breathing has evened out. She's taking well to the transfusion." He looked up at Lestrade with a grave face. "She's alive, but her body's still in a state of shock."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she's pretty much in a comatose state. I don't know when, or if, she'll wake up. I'm sorry Lestrade; I don't think she'll be able to help you very much." John put down the clipboard and took a chair next to Natasha.

Lestrade nodded with a wistful smile. "She's alive; that's good enough for me right now. What exactly did you to give her?"

"I'm not quite sure," John said quietly, shaking his head as he picked up the development file. "Sherlock's the one who made it; I just took it from the lab. Whatever it is, it's working."

"Where the bloody hell is Sherlock anyways?" Lestrade cried out. "I thought you said he'd be here."

"He should; he said he's on his way when I last talked to him."

"When was that?"

"Two hours ago."

Lestrade groaned with impatience; of course Sherlock would be making them wait. He was tired, and he was frustrated. The last thing he wanted to be doing was sitting around waiting for the genius to waltz in. "Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No," John said, his forehead clenching slightly with worry. "He just said he had to see something. I haven't heard from him since. Have you?"

"Not since he texted me about the Kensington Gardens. It's not like he likes to keep me in the loop or anything like—wait a minute." Lestrade had a momentary flash of brilliance as he thought back to all of the texts between himself and Sherlock. Pulling out his phone, he flipped to the sent messages folder quickly. "I almost forgot," he muttered.

"What?" John asked, standing out of his seat and moving towards Lestrade.

"He asked me to trace a number when we were in my office," he began. "And I traced it to…here it is: 52 E—Lane."

"And where exactly is that?"

"I don't know; I didn't have a chance to look the exact location up. It's one of the more abandoned areas, if I remember correctly. By the time I texted him that address, he told me about the Kensington Gardens and I put that as my priority."

"And whose number was it?"

"Hang on, I have it here." Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper with Sherlock's familiar scrawl on it. "When we trace cell phone numbers," he explained "which this one apparently is, the computer can't see who the owner of the phone is without consent from the wireless company, which takes some time. I asked Sherlock whose it was, but he neglected to tell me anything."

John took the slip in his own hand, staring at his long and hard. There was something very familiar about this number. Now, Watson knew his memory was nowhere near the caliber of Sherlock's, but he reckoned that his own could stand against the memories of most others. The longer he looked at the numbers, the more convinced he was that he had seen it before. Pulling out his own phone, he began to dial the digits.

"John, what are you doing?" Lestrade stood up and looked over John's hand.

"Just give me a minute," he replied absentmindedly, focusing more on the electronic sounds that followed each number. As he entered the final one, his phone's screen shifted slightly, a small subscript appearing under the number: _Anna Huntington. _

"Lestrade…" John said quietly, passing the phone to the Detective Inspector. Lestrade's eyes widened as he looked directly up from the screen.

"Shit."

"Vital signs, now," a deep voice suddenly called out against the whine of a swinging door. The two men looked up from John's phone to see Sherlock's dark coat sweeping into the room.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" Lestrade called out before processing the fact that he already knew where Sherlock had been. It became more of a declaration of anger than an actual question.

"I was busy making house calls," Sherlock replied sardonically as he took off his scarf and threw his coat onto a chair. "Now, what are her vital signs?"

Lestrade and John looked at one another before staring back at Sherlock. How could the most intellectual detective in the entirety of the United Kingdom be so incredibly dense? Sociopath or not, there was only so much the two companions could take. Lestrade threw up his hands in frustration, heading towards the door. "You deal with him, John. I don't think I can do it anymore. I have something more important to do."

"Pray tell, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said sarcastically, "what seems to be troubling you now? Have you finally realized the incompetency of your forensics team, or is there a cat up a tree—"

"God damn it Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled, turning around and grabbing the collar of Sherlock's shirt. "Where do you think you get off? You have me trace Huntington's cell, and then you don't tell me about it? I could have had a squad sent out hours ago; we could have set up another raid—"

"Lestrade," John said calmly, but Sherlock shot him a cold look warning him not to interrupt. Lestrade was wrangling the collar now, wildly glaring at the figure in front of him with anger, and Sherlock did nothing but stand strong.

"—I could have had security footage scanned at least twice by now! Instead, you keep me and John in the dark, waiting for _your_ next move, _your _next demand. Do you think this is a game, Sherlock? Maybe it is for you, but not for the rest of us. This is the Doll Maker; he's already kidnapped three girls in the past two weeks. In case that means nothing to you, let me remind you: one is dead, one is comatose, and one is an eighteen year old girl who happens to be his life obsession! I didn't want to believe this, Sherlock; I didn't want to believe you prioritize your entertainment and your stimulation over Anna's life. But you do—"

"Lestrade," John called out stronger this time. They were all under stress, but this was beginning to get out of control.

"—and Anna is going to die. I refuse to let that happen! If you're not going to help me, Sherlock, then why the hell should I help you? Huh? _You _don't care and _I _don't have the information you have to save her. And either way, the Doll Maker wins, Sherlock. Even if you catch him, even if you prove your superior intellect, it doesn't matter: if Anna dies, he automatically wins. So enough with the secrecy—"

"That's enough, Lestrade." Sherlock said abruptly, breaking the tired rant. "That's enough."

Lestrade stopped, noticing that his hands were shaking with a fury. He paused, unable to remember how he reached such a point of extreme emotion. Part of him still wanted to sock Sherlock's jaw; he would have done it too, if it weren't for the blank look in Sherlock's eyes. There was no reciprocated anger; he hadn't provoked him at all. Maybe it was the fact that he was a sociopath, but there was a calm that gave a chill down his spine. John had come around and put a cool hand on his shoulder, tugging him away. Lestrade felt the heavy fatigue pulling against his eyes as he turned away and sat back down in his chair, running his hands through his hair once again.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled quietly, looking up at the two men in front of him. John nodded at him with a quiet understanding. Sherlock hadn't moved at all; only his hand twitched slightly. "I'm just…tired, that's all. This Doll Maker fellow, he's just getting under my skin. I, um, I think this might be getting too personal. I don't think I'll be very much help here—"

"No," Sherlock said bluntly, finally turning to face him. John and Lestrade both turned to him with a mild surprise. It seemed like Sherlock was about to apologize, a rare act that always seemed inconceivable. Of course, they were wrong. "Don't think," he continued coldly. "You can't think about this, Lestrade. Don't make this personal; don't let the fact that it was Huntington who was taken affect you. The Doll Maker knows that, and he will use that against you. He is depending on all of us getting desperate. She is just another girl; she always has been. Do not make this personal.

"Concerning the trace on Huntington's cell phone number, there's no point in sending a squad out now; they are long gone. It wouldn't have mattered anyways; the Doll Maker has too many other locations to go to. However," he said as he pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket from his pocket, "now we have an advantage."

He tossed the paper to Lestrade, who unfolded it and gazed at it with recognition. He passed the paper to John and looked back at Sherlock with weary eyes and a deep sigh. John took a moment to analyze it, and then he understood. It was the map from Anna's copy of the Doll Maker file, dotted with blood.

"That's an awful amount of blood," Lestrade said.

"Yeah, but look," John interrupted, leaning over to match Lestrade's line of sight. "The blood splatters are too perfectly placed over specific locations. I think this was purposeful, Lestrade. I think this means—"

"Anna is alive." Sherlock completed. "And she is doing exactly what I knew she would; she's given us a trail. I've already visited the key areas on the map; he's in one of those locations. Now that we know where he could be, it's a matter of provoking him enough to make a mistake."

"And how exactly do we go about doing that?" Lestrade asked.

"I've already taken care of it," Sherlock said impatiently, staring down the familiar gray eyes that questioned him. "You've always trusted me, Lestrade; this case is no different, so let me do my work. Now, John, vital signs."

John looked up at Sherlock from Lestrade's side. His lean figure was a dark shadow in the hospital room; an omnipotent shape that represented all hope in the Doll Maker case. "Yeah, sure," he said, remembering his own role in the investigation. Slowly (he himself starting to begin to feel the fatigue of the day), he stood up and grabbed Natasha's charts from the end of the bed. The two figures stood on opposite sides of the bed. John glanced back at Lestrade, who resumed the same position he was in before Sherlock had entered: elbows on knees, eyes closing momentarily.

"You didn't need to do that to him," John whispered to Sherlock over Natasha's body.

"What?" Sherlock responded cluelessly.

"Um, let's see: keep him in the dark about the trace, insult his intelligence, provoke him, and then make him feel incompetent. He's having a hard enough time as it is."

"I'm not going to pretend to understand what he's going through, John; that would be the greatest insult of all," he said quietly. "I need you to focus. Tell me the vital signs."

John sighed, rehashing what he had just told Lestrade not too long ago. "Heart rate stable, blood pressure up and stable, transfusion at 85%…"

Sherlock observed Natasha's body as John's words melted away in his thoughts. She was a pale girl with dark raven hair, dressed in a pastorally floral dress and left barefooted; no doubt she looked like a farmer's daughter. Against the white hospital sheets and the harsh lights, she appeared to be a pretty little doll; only the faint heaving of her chest rising up and down gave her the appearance of life.

_Nothing wrong at first sight: same dust particles in the hair as in Clara's. Same type of hairspray as well, judging from the scent and consistency. Same light patch of skin from a bandage that was placed recently and torn off most likely in the Royal Gardens: there is a small swelling area, probably reacting to the injection. Feet covered in the same sort of particles in the hair: she too was allowed to walk around the warehouse; the Doll Maker doesn't feel the need to put his captives in bondage; he trusts them. It's not the fact that they trust him, but that he trusts them. He's a trusting paranoid, how interesting, but it still gives me very little to go off of…_

_The Girl without Hands, _Sherlock reached for Natasha's hand, her small palm faced down against the white sheets. He ran his thumb over a deep red imprint lined with silver slivers that unevenly crossed her skin.

"Oh, right," John paused in his medical analysis, turning away from Sherlock. "Lestrade, didn't you say there are photos of Natasha's body when you found her."

"Yeah, um," Lestrade said thoughtfully, leaning over the side of his chair and pulling out a stack of photos. "You never showed up, so I had the photographers rush these prints. I figured you might want to see the crime scene, but—"

"Yes," Sherlock starkly interrupted, snatching the pictures form Lestrade. He flipped through the stack, muttering "what, do these investigators think they are part of some art institute?" along the way. He picked out three select ones, passing the rest back to Lestrade.

The three photos together gave Sherlock a 360 degree view of Natasha's body and how it was placed. The first shot was straight on. She sat slumped under a pear tree, head laid on her shoulder and her arms contorted in such a way that they disappeared behind her back. She looked as if she were sleeping, waiting for someone to come find her. The second photo was taken from slightly above her head, documenting the space between Natasha's back and the bark of the tree. Sherlock could see that her hands were bound with a silver cord, and he resisted a chuckle.

_Of course, _he thought, returning to his deductions, _the Doll Maker is this pedantic about the minute details of the story, yet he can't bring himself to physically cut off her hands. Probably due to a lack of resources; a box cutter would be too messy. That must be driving him mad right about now. So what did he do to her hands really?_

Returning his attention to Natasha's hands, he carefully reached out and wrapped his long fingers around hers. Seeing what Sherlock was about to do, John took Natasha's other hand in his own. With a simple glance from Sherlock, they simultaneously flipped over the hand they held in their own, revealing Natasha's wrists. What they saw made John take a sharp breath in. Sherlock blankly absorbed the sight, not saying a word.

"Bloody hell," John murmured. "How did I miss that?"

"What?" Lestrade asked, pushing himself up out of his chair and walking over to the foot of the hospital bed. His eyes widened and his heart stopped; he had been completely unprepared for what he saw.

Two extremely thin lines crossed her interior wrists; traced gashes left deep red cracks in her pale skin. And from where he was standing, Lestrade could see a tiny phrase written over the lines over her two wrists: _Don't let the Fairies take me. _

"I—I," John stuttered, "I can't believe I missed that." He looked up at Sherlock, trying to figure out what had happened. "I knew her wrists were swelling, but I assumed that it was irritation from the silver rope, not these cuts. Dear god…"

Sherlock ran his finger over the edge of her wrist. _These cuts were made post-injection with the same blade he always uses, which is why there was such great swelling; now that we've cleansed out the compound, the body stopped swelling and now we can see what the Doll Maker intended us to. The fact that the Doll Maker didn't account for the swelling post-injection and still put his message on her wrist means that he doesn't know the extent of his compound: he doesn't know what its side-effects are. He didn't have any part in creating the compound, he only knows how to use it…so how did he access it in the first place?_

_The phrase was written in thin black sharpie before the injection was put in, and Natasha let him write that on her wrists. That means it has a meaning that is relevant to a child, most likely a childhood story. What childhood story involves Fairies though…too many to count. I need to narrow it down some more. I need Natasha to tell me the story herself. _

"How much longer will she remain in this state?" Sherlock abruptly asked, breaking the solemn silence between his two companions. John took one last glance over Natasha's charts and shook his head.

"I don't know," he replied. "I mean, she's stable, but the increased activity of her hypothalamus is throwing everything off hormonally. It might be days, or weeks, before she wakes up; until then, her body is comatose. I don't think we should push her, either; the time for her body to regulate itself is crucial. We'll have to wait it out."

"We don't have weeks, John," Lestrade said, rubbing his eyes once more. "Sherlock, what are we supposed to do?"

But Sherlock was preoccupied, looking down at the photo of Natasha's bound hands once more. He pulled the photo up to his face, squinting his eyes narrowly down towards the bottom left edge. Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he gave a small sound of understanding. He passed the photo to his two companions, who stared at him completely confused.

"Look at her fingers," he commented, and they directed their gaze to her fingers. "Why are all her fingers bent into a fist except for her right index?"

John looked up at Sherlock, who said this with a light in his eye. He understood immediately what Sherlock was getting at, and he followed Natasha's finger with his eyes. Squinting a bit more, the two realized what Natasha was pointing at in the bark of the tree supporting her from behind.

"Sherlock," John asked, completely and utterly baffled by what exactly he was looking at, "why is Natasha pointing to a carving of a goat?"

"Is that a goat?" Lestrade asked, clearing his throat and squinting once more.

"Yes, that is a goat Lestrade. Natasha is leading us to a goat."

"How do we know the Doll Maker did that?"

"Classic dissection of a box cutter, and look at the wood; the edges are too sharp for this to have been done any time before the last two days. The lack of moss growing around it indicates an extremely recent carving. He meant for us to see it."

"And what exactly does this goat mean?" John asked, unsure of the seriousness of this clue.

"No idea," Sherlock replied as he spontaneously turned towards the door, collecting his coat and his scarf along the way, "but I am absolutely famished, aren't you two? Anyone up for Indian?"

"No," Lestrade started sullenly, turning towards John. "I really ought to—"

"Go and get sleep," John completed, giving him a nod of quiet understanding. Lestrade made to object, trying to create a coherent statement before John again cut him off. "Go; doctor's orders. Sherlock and I have things under control. I won't let him out of my sight, and I'll keep you updated on anything he finds this time. Besides, Indian doesn't mean Indian."

"What does it mean, then?"

"It means we're going to the only 24 hour bookshop Sherlock likes to go to. It just happens to be next to Indian takeout."

* * *

**[A/N: I'd like to apologize if it seems like the story is dragging on. There are a lot of details I would like to cover to give it the most realistic feel I can. There is an ending; everything has been plotted out. I'm estimating ~30 chapters; there may be more depending on shifts in the plot line. You're so close, I promise. Thank you to all those who have followed this story and its characters; I owe it to all of you to give it a proper conclusion.] **


	27. Chapter 27: No More Hints

**Chapter 27: No More Hints **

"Sherlock Holmes, how nice it is to see you! What can I do for you?"

"Ah, Peters," Sherlock replied with the vaguely warm tone of general tolerance, "I am in need of some literary assistance tonight."

"Of course, of course, come in. I was just cataloguing some things."

Sherlock and John stepped through the glass door, labeled Peters' Antique Books in thin white letters, that the wiry man ushered them through, entering the dimly lit bookstore. As they made their way to the managing desk, the man locked the glass door once again, hurrying his way back to the counter and lighting another candle for each man. John looked at his watch; it was already 11:30 pm. Although the sign on the door stated the closing time as eight, Peters was still in the shop; the man practically lived there. For friends like Sherlock, he was always open.

"You'll have to forgive me," he stuttered quietly to them, his hands shaking with general nervousness as struck the matches against his match box, "I don't like the fluorescent lights; they burn my eyes. Besides, these books look better in more natural lighting; they have a darker complexion, don't you think? Really accentuates the bindings."

John took a quick glance around at the chaos that enveloped the entirety of the small store front, wondering if perhaps the store itself had gotten more tumultuous than the last time they had visited. The only light that could really illuminate the store was that of the streetlamps that lined the street outside, it's light shining in through the glass store front. The bookshop itself was relatively small, crammed with huge dark, mahogany bookshelves that nearly hit the ceilings. And the old, frail books themselves were everywhere: filed on shelves, stuffed between bookcases, stacked up on the floors in twisted piles, piled on any remaining chairs or desks. Any claims that Peters had made in cataloguing could not be taken seriously, at least not by John; Peters' sense of organization was almost as nonexistent as Sherlock's, if not worse.

He noticed a flickering in his peripheral vision, and swung back around to see Peters holding out a candlestick, the flame producing a glowing aura in the dark environment. John gave a nod of thanks, grasping it in his hand. In the candle's light, Peters looked extremely thin and utterly exhausted, as if he had not slept in days. His hands had a permanent tremor, one that made John wonder how he had not burned the bookstore down yet. Eyes twitching under a giant mess of dark hair, Peters looked around the bookstore nervously, as if he were waiting for someone to jump out from behind him. It was a paranoia that John rarely ever saw in a functioning human being; the first time they had met, he was positive Peters was an addict. Sherlock, however, pointed out every minute detail that proved that the man was simply genetically-predisposed towards anxiety (something about family photos and bookkeeping skills).

"Now then, gentlemen" Peters said, cutting through the silence of the night, "what do you need to know?"

"Fairies and goats," Sherlock said simply, to which Peters' forehead clenched in confusion. "I need to know about any fairytale that involves fairies and goats."

"Hm, let me think," the frail man said, his eyes wandering down towards the ground in deep thought. His finger tapped the edge of the desk frantically. John listened to the inconsistent sounds, trying not to become too annoyed with the clicking. It was late and the doctor knew he was tired, but that did not stop him from getting a bit irritated. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to pay no attention to the distraction, choosing instead to intently stare at the erratic man. Suddenly, Peters gave a slight gasp, jolting his head up with a flash of brilliance. "That might be…maybe…" he muttered before abruptly scurrying towards the back bookshelves with a candle.

John gave an irascible sigh. He was tired and hungry and simply disappointed with the trials of the day, and there was very little more he could take. "Remind me again," he whispered, glaring at Sherlock impatiently, "why we come to Peters."

"Because," Sherlock replied quietly, the flame of the candle he held in his own hand leaving a faint glimmer in his dark eyes, "Peters is the most knowledgeable man in the entire city of London when it comes to folktales and historical stories."

"You wouldn't think that just by looking at him, or his store. Look at the state of this place; whatever cataloguing he does has to be a joke."

"On the contrary, John, his methods are actually quite intelligent. I take it you noticed his fingers—"

"Bloody annoying, if you ask me," John muttered.

"It's how he accesses his cataloguing system. His brain has systematically divided the store and has registered the location of every book within it. His mind works like a computer: all he has to do is type the keywords in his head, via the finger tapping, and he can locate anything. He's efficient; that, John, is why we go to Peters."

"Sherlock," Peter's small voice called from the back recesses of the bookshop, "I think you might want to have a look at this."

Sherlock gracefully made his way around the book stacks that littered the floor, walking around the maze of bookshelves towards the aura of yellow light that proved to be the only form of illumination in the entire store on this fall night. There stood Peters, bent down slightly in front of one of the shelves, his trembling hand scanning the dark books with the candle. He breathed heavily, searching with a supreme mission. Finally, his fingers tugged out one dusty book, bound with dark brown leather. He passed his candle to Sherlock, who held the light over the text as he flipped through the pages of foreign text. Suddenly, he stopped, running his finger down the page.

"De tre bukkene Bruse," Peters remarked quietly, his tongue running over the Norwegian accent in perfect dialect.

"Three Billy Goats Gruff," said Sherlock. "Please, continue."

"Um," Peters stuttered, trying to quickly translate the text as he read. "well, it's just like it sounds. There are three goats, and they are trying to cross a bridge to eat grass on the other side. I guess that's where the phrase 'the grass is greener on the other side' applies," he chuckled nervously, to which Sherlock motioned him to continue. "Anyways, um, there is a troll that guards the bridge who threatens to eat any goat the crosses the bridge, but the goats are smart. The smallest goat tells the troll to let him across and wait for a bigger goat to pass by, as he would make a better meal. The second goat tells the troll the same thing, and gets by easily enough. The third goat, the biggest of them, tries to cross the bridge then. When the troll threatens him, he simply throws the troll into the river with his horns, where he drowns. They all live happily ever after; well, except for the troll, I guess."

When Peters looked up, Sherlock was shaking his head. "No, that's not it; that can't be it. It's too simple, and there is nothing about fairies in it. There has to be something else. What am I—"

"Sherlock," Peters interrupted meekly. "What exactly is this for?"

"The Doll Maker," he replied, watching as Peters' eyes widened with a strange curiosity. That was one of the things that had always allowed Sherlock to tolerate the shaky man: the consensual agreement on the fact that what the normal world deemed horrific was, in all actuality, quite simply interesting.

"Oh yes, I saw that in the news. Second girl this week, am I right? It really is a pity; I had forgotten all about that kidnapper until I saw that first girl come up. Nifty idea, making her the Little Match Girl, but this second one…he didn't really cut off her hands, did he? The rumor going around is that she was supposed to be the Girl Without Hands."

"She still has her hands," Sherlock stated.

"That's a relief; I mean, I know she's paralyzed and everything, but at least she didn't have to go through the pain of having her hands cut off. Now that, that would be horrific. I guess the only real question I have left, outside of who he really is, is how he broke into Kensington Gardens—"

Sherlock watched as a thought darted across Peters' easily read face and just as quickly receded. "What?" he probed as the bookkeeper's fingers began to move once again, this time tapping against his leg.

"One moment," he said with absolute clarity, almost robotically. Suddenly, he shoved the Norwegian book back onto the shelf and snatched his candle out of Sherlock's hand, darting to the other side of the store. There was the sound of a figure bumping into the bookshelves, followed by stacks of books falling over with muted thuds.

"Is everything alright back there?" John called out, having seen a flash of light flying across the back end of the bookstore. Only moments before, he had heard the two men muttering about something; this sudden change in pace was quiet alarming in the dark atmosphere of the bookstore.

"Yes, yes," Peters said quietly, scanning the opposite bookcase with the candle before screaming "SHERLOCK, I FOUND IT!"

Both John and Sherlock ran towards the voice and its light. Peters stood there, rocking back and forth on his feet, almost hyperventilating with excitement. In one hand was a thin blue book, its yellowing pages fading away. John took the shaking candle out of Peters' hand before he could drop it, and Sherlock put his hand on the man's shoulders.

"I think—it must be—unless I'm—maybe I am—wait, what if—"

"What is it?" Sherlock said, grabbing the other shoulder and shaking him to a more controlled disposition. When the bookkeeper simply shook his head, Sherlock tossed his candle to John (who luckily caught it) and tore the book out of Peters' hand. With a quick glance, Sherlock read the title before looking back up at sudden maniac, who smiled at him with delight.

"Thank you, Peters," Sherlock said, clapping his hand once more on the man's shoulder before slipping the book into his coat pocket. He took two candles from John, handing one of them to the erratic bookkeeper, who now leaned against the bookshelf behind him for support, and holding the other one in front of him to see. John nodded once Peters, who waved back at him with a shaking hand. Sherlock and John then made their way back towards the front door, dropping a twenty pound note on the counter of the desk before slipping away.

"Sherlock," John asked as the door shut behind them. They walked down the empty side street quickly, Sherlock seemingly eager to catch a cab. "I have never seen that man so excited; what exactly did you say to him?"

"Kensington Gardens," he replied sternly. "He thought there was something important about that. Interesting…" Sherlock quickened his pace, leaving John lagging somewhat behind him.

"Hang on, what was the book he gave you?"

Sherlock slipped a hand into his pocket, passing the book to John before making a mad dash towards the cab at the end of the street. John looked down at it, completely puzzled by what it could possibly mean.

_The Little White Bird_, by J. M. Barrie.

* * *

"I still don't understand," John said as he unlocked the front door of 221B Baker Street. He held the little blue book in his hand, having taken the liberty of reading the first few pages of the novel while the detective taciturnly contemplated the events of the day in the cab. As he swung the door open, Sherlock paid the cabbie for the late night ride and met John at the foot of the darkened stairwell.

"Have you ever heard of this novel, Sherlock?" John asked in a murmur as they slowly made their way up the stairs, trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson. At one in the morning, she would not be pleased at the usual ruckus her dear "boys" often made upon their return from investigating. In the darkness, their every step filled their air with a creak.

"Not this novel in particular, no," Sherlock muttered. "You read it; what's bothering you?"

"Nothing's bothering me—"John began reluctantly.

"Of course something's bothering you; the number of sighs you gave in a span of twenty minutes while reading the first five pages indicates something is wrong. Don't make me point out the other signs: the—"

"Alright, alright," John said, perhaps a little bit louder than he should have. He stopped midway on the stairs, trying to fight the fatigue long enough to explain to Sherlock. Lowering his voice, he continued "this isn't a fairytale. This is darker; it's more of a satire. The only things referenced in this are human beings in London. There can't be anything of relevance in this. Sherlock, I think Peters made a mistake."

Sherlock gave a low, singular laugh as he pushed past Watson and continued up the stairwell. "You do realize that many fairytales are a form of satire, don't you John? All you have to do is look for its context. But we'll have to deal with that later; we have a visitor."

Sherlock pointed up to the top of the stairs, and John looked up at the door to their room, noticing its glowing yellow outline. A cold chill went up his spine; the only person who really felt the need to visit them recently had been the Doll Maker. He was about to whisper a word of warning to his friend, but there seemed to be no need. Sherlock confidently strode up the stairs and swung the door wide open, giving a cold glare into the living room before stepping in.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said coldly. In the yellow light of the lamps, the room had been illuminated with a warm glow; the only thing that appeared to be out of place in the chaotic room was the neat figure that sat patiently on the sofa.

"Sherlock," he returned with a grave nod. "I take it you have been busy."

"Very much so."

"Mycroft," John exclaimed as he entered the room as well. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, it's just a personal visit to my dear brother," he replied, standing up and walking over to the two figures still standing by the door. He held out his hand to Sherlock, who promptly ignored it and instead made his way over to the window, throwing his coat and scarf onto the desk and snatching his violin on the way. Mycroft let out a deep breath. "Childish as always," he said, this time offering his hand to John.

"It's been a long night," he replied, shaking the man's hand loosely. "Erm, how exactly did you get in the flat?"

"I have my resources," Mycroft vaguely returned.

"Mrs. Hudson let him in; around ten, judging by the state of the china. You wouldn't offer us cold tea, now would you Mycroft?" Sherlock sneered, plucking at the strings of his violin harshly.

"I wouldn't dream of it, my dear brother."

"Then get to the point; I am in no mood to deal with your attempts at brotherly affection."

"You never are," John tried saying, but this time he was just too tired to try to mediate the tensions between the two. Instead, he walked towards the sofa and slowly sat down, placing the novel on the tea table and waiting to hear what exactly Mycroft had waited three hours to say.

There was a brief pause as Mycroft made his way to the tea table with the grace of a proper Englishman, gliding nonchalantly with a cool self-importance. While John would normally scoff upon men like him for arrogance, he knew he couldn't; Mycroft was the entirety of the British government, he didn't really have to feign humility. The man glanced down at the novel momentarily, eyes squinting once at the characters on the front and then mentally waving it away.

"Alright then, Sherlock," he started, taking a seat across from John to face the two men. Sherlock remained looking out the window, the plucking growing faster and faster as the time went on. "I'll get to the 'point': the Doll Maker."

"What about him?" Sherlock abruptly stated.

"There are some very unhappy people right now; the fact that the Doll Maker physically broke into the Kensington Palace Gardens and placed one of his victims directly in said gardens has made the royal family quite, hm, uncomfortable, shall we say. The media association is quite unpleasant for them, and they wish to be separated from the matter as soon as possible."

"This concerns me why?"

"Enough with the games, Sherlock; end this situation now. Twelve years; it has gone on long enough."

"What are your ulterior motives, brother dearest?" Sherlock spat aggressively, the plucking on the violin alarmingly staccato. John looked up at his friend in surprise at the directed anger. He knew the two would never get along, but this was more dangerous than usual.

At Mycroft's calculated silence, Sherlock attacked once more. "You never make direct visits on the behalf of the royal family's petty discomforts. What do you want with her?"

"Her?" John broke in, turning to Mycroft. The British government sat calmly, hands folded in his laps. "You mean Anna Huntington?"

Mycroft gave a deep sigh. "A sixteen year old girl scoring the top mark on the Police Academy final; surely you two realized I would already know about her. I've heard very good things from the Academy, and monitoring her progress on this case has only solidified her standings as a potential agent for me. I was looking to recruit her…but that hardly matters right now. Sherlock, catch the Doll Maker and close this case once and for all."

"We've been trying to, but we don't know…" John tried to intervene, but Sherlock's voice overpowered his.

"It will be done by the end of the week."

John turned around and faced Sherlock incredulously. "By the end of the week? Sherlock..."

"Marvelous. Well then, I will take my leave." Mycroft stood up, giving a nod to John as he walked over to the window.

"I believe you were expecting this," he whispered as Sherlock refused to face him, slipping a familiar card into the front pocket of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock gave a small shrug, pushing his brother further away as he threw the violin on his shoulder and flung the bow up to match. Soft music filled the flat, as if a personal statement symbolizing Sherlock's rejection of the topic at hand.

Mycroft collected his coat from the dresser by the door, pulling out his phone and sending a quick text to someone (_probably not-Anthea_, John thought to himself cynically, still sore from her rejections). Lights could be seen from the street level as a limo made its way towards 221B Baker Street.

"By the way, John," Mycroft said singularly, never turning to face the fatigued figure still sitting slumped on the sofa, "J.M Barrie…Sherlock always said he wanted to be a pirate when he grew up." And with that, he was gone. John listened through the music as the limo door was slammed shut and the engine slowly rolled away.

John remained silent, too tired to really want to comprehend what was going on. He muttered something about sleeping to Sherlock and went off to his bedroom; falling asleep to the lull of Sherlock's violin almost the instant he hit the bed. For him, it was the ultimate peace.

Sherlock waited until he heard the steady breathing of John sleeping before he put down the violin. Pulling the card out of his front shirt pocket, he read the Doll Maker's message:

_I have given you everything you need, Sherlock Holmes. No more hints. The clock is ticking for the darling. _

It was just what he had expected; the Doll Maker was indeed breaking down, so much so that he felt too insecure to give any more taunting clues. What the Doll Maker hadn't anticipated was the possibility that he had already begun to crack the hints; he had placed himself steps ahead of the Doll Maker. He went to the desk, pulling out his secret stash of nicotine patches. Slapping three onto his right arm, he made his way to the tea table and picked up the novel, flipping through the pages until he found exactly what he was expecting. With a smile, he pulled out the bloody map Anna had left for him.


	28. Chapter 28: Six Hours

**Chapter 28: Six Hours**

Anna woke up in the familiar foggy sense that was becoming all too much like second nature to her. At least now she could automatically assume she had been chloroformed; it wasn't as discombobulating anymore, and that fact certainly saved her time and energy. Her head spun with nausea as she regained some semblance of consciousness under the darkness of her eyelids. With a deep groan, she stretched her limbs, wiggling her fingers and toes, trying to reorient her senses. A foreign fabric rubbed against her skin, a stark difference from the cold surface of concrete that she had only recently become accustomed to. She took a deep breath, taking in cool, clean air. Listening quietly, there was a silence, muffling the background noise of cars and people somewhere far away. A fan whirled somewhere nearby, sending waves of cool air through her hair.

_This can't be another warehouse, _she thought in the darkness. _So where am I this time?_

Hazarding a look, she opened her eyes, the dull gray light of day blinding her. Above her was indeed a ceiling fan, its white blades slowly rotating against a dark green background. Rolling over onto her side, she found herself in an empty apartment, its forest green walls chipping to reveal the white underlying plaster in small ovals. The sofa she had been laid on faced an old whitewashed door and a mahogany stained dresser. Straining her arms, she sat up, the stiffness in her neck returning her to reality from the drug-induced reverie. With a groan, she placed her feet on the cold wooden floor, slowly shifting her weight to her sore ankles until she could stumble up.

Letting her body adjust to the new change in position, Anna looked around the main room she had suddenly found herself in. It was minimally furnished, with very little else outside of the sofa and the dresser. On top of the dresser, her blue coat was folded neatly into a compact rectangle. Behind the sofa was an open archway leading into a small kitchen. Except for that initial white-washed door, there were two other doors, both opened enough to get a glimpse at the rooms inside: one leading into a bathroom, the other leading into a small bedroom. The remaining side of the main room had two large windows, the late autumn light streaming in through a pair of gauze curtains onto the two cushioned benches that provided a seat to anyone who wanted to look out of them.

_Dominant scent in the air is alcohol: either a murder cover-up just concluded here, or this apartment was recently cleaned out for a new tenant. _Anna scanned the room once more. _Clean wooden floor, but covered with internal scratches, plus the chipping of the underlying plaster of the walls rather than the paint itself: old building. However, the ceiling fan and the new coat of paint around it suggest recent renovations. French-styled double window reminiscent of early 1900 fashion, which is not exactly efficient for temperature consistency. Why add a ceiling fan when it would be more efficient to change the window format? Answer: this building is meant to mimic a certain time period. There must be something special about the style of the apartment itself, but none of this is relevant._

Anna instinctively made her way to the whitewash door, jiggling the grimy gold door knob. _Old-fashioned door knob: one-way lock. I can't get out of the room unless someone outside unlocks it with a key. Shit. But why does this apartment still have this kind of door knob? _Growling at the ridiculous nature of the door itself, she peered through the keyhole, looking out into the hallway. _Twisted staircase ends on this floor; I'm on the top floor of this building. Judging by the height of this ceiling, no one will likely hear me from below if I make noise; no use trying. How high up am I?_

She went to the windows, pushing the gauzy fabric to the side. Sitting on the bench, Anna mustered the strength to open the first one. The panes shook as she pushed the windows out and open, the hinges squeaking as the window opened up into two halves. The cool autumn breeze blew through her hair, raised goose bumps aggravating her bare arms. Just beyond the horizon, a dark mass of clouds rolled along; it would rain soon, the moisture already building in the air. She could hear the sounds of the city, the quiet mumbling of the people and the cars below. Crawling up onto the bench, she hung her feet out the window until she was standing on a thin concrete ledge. Looking to both sides, she noticed the gray-bricked walls and old ivy that made the exterior of the apartment, accentuating the age of the complex, despite some of the interior renovations.

Deciding to take the risk, Anna looked down at the streets below her. Her feet tingled and her body screamed with every fiber of being to get down from that ledge, the adrenaline racing through her blood. But through her dulled perceptions, she remained standing, holding herself up with a hand wrapped around the window's frame. The cool air whipped at her face as she looked around. There was a green park across the street, with deep green trees that covered a vast field where small children ran around, chasing each other up and down the space. Mothers sat on small wooden benches, talking to each other hurriedly, pausing only momentarily in breaths to check their children. With a vague fear, Anna scanned the park's edge until she found what she was looking for.

There, under the tree closest the apartment building was the large, familiar figure, wrapped in a black coat. A shiver went down her spine at the sight of the Doll Maker. Her heart skipped at beat as she realized her vulnerability at the window's ledge; if he saw her dangling out of the window, there would certainly be consequences. However, his back was facing her as he watched the children, playing the role of innocent passer-by. Anna saw her backpack hanging off his shoulder, a thought suddenly flashing through her mind.

_The antidote._

With that directive, Anna jumped back into the bare apartment, slamming the windows shut and drawing the gauze back over them. The Doll Maker was just outside the apartment; at best, she would have ten minutes before he reached her.

_Think: this apartment was never used before this, meaning the Doll Maker rented it out for one purpose. This is where he is placing me, then. _Her arms shook at the realization, her index finger immediately digging into the skin of her thumb. The adrenaline continued to run through her veins, her heart beating faster and faster and her breathing quickening. _There has got to be a way to tell Sherlock where I am. Think, god damn it. _

Anna ran to the singular dresser, flying through each drawer. Only the bottom one contained anything; a secondary set of clothing. Rummaging through the fabrics, Anna found a white box much like the ones she saw in the warehouses she was put in. Tearing it open, she saw exactly what she feared: five syringes, each one filled with a clear solution. She held one in her hand, raising it high above her head, letting the graying light run through it. A sudden temptation transfixed her; throw it to the ground, destroy any chance of his using it. Her arm lifted higher into the air, her back muscles twitching to bring it crashing down to the ground.

_Stop it, Anna. You know breaking these will do nothing but make matters worse. You saw the warehouses: he was plenty more of these. If you destroy these vials, you'll only be showing the Doll Maker your fear. _

She tossed the vial back into its white box, carefully replacing the cloth that hid them before. Instead, she ran into the kitchen, searching through the cupboards and drawers. But no matter how vigorously she searched, there was nothing in any of them. The cupboards were empty; the drawers had nothing but cloth in them. The most that was in the fridge was a bottle of water and two sandwiches, neither of which looked very appealing. Giving a small groan of frustration, Anna ran into the single bedroom across the main room, where the same problem plagued her. The Doll Maker had left her nothing, absolutely nothing to chance any communication with Sherlock.

Now officially panicking, Anna ran into the small bathroom. Flicking the light on, she threw out all the drawers, finally finding a pair of scissors. Taking it in her hands, she held it up in front of her, judging the dull blades. But something distracted her out of the corner of her eye. Looking at the reflection in front of her, Anna saw herself for the first time in a week. Her dark hair hung limply over her face and shoulders. Brushing them to the sides, her bony shoulders were revealed, the clavicle starkly lined under the harsh artificial light of the bathroom. Her wide eyes were framed by the dark circles of restlessness, and her cheekbones were far more defined than usual. Even in the extreme nature of her situation, there was something rather beautiful about her; she looked like a fading china doll, the youth mixing with the poignant paleness of her skin. It was something only the Doll Maker would find enticing.

Taking a deep breath, Anna calmed herself down. Rubbing her face, she steadied her breathing. Her fingers stopped twitching, and she looked down to see the jagged edges of skin beading with the familiar deep red of blood. It was a comfort; no matter what happened, her bloody fingers were always there, always coping. With slow clarity, she reached out and turned on the sink, the old faucets rushing to life as she dipped her fingers into the cool water. There was a reactionary shiver, followed by a singular pulse of blood rushing into each finger. It was strange that she didn't need her usual method to relieve the stress, but that moment was not the time to question the overwhelming sense of peace that overcame her. Twisting the faucet shut and drying her hands with the nearby towel, she looked into the mirror once more. Each heart beat sent a pulse through her head. With one more breath, the ringing silence filled her ears.

"I trust you, Sherlock," she said, shattering the silence. She was surprised at the weak nature of her voice, the quavering in her intonation. It had been a while since she had heard herself talk, but the underlying fatigue and fear scared her the most. This was fear, something she had buried into the depths of her mind until she believed she no longer felt it. Now she had no choice but to face it, the reflection stolidly depicting her as she stood tall.

"I trust you, Sherlock," she said once more, "and now it's time I play the game."

Flicking off the bathroom light, Anna made her way back into the main living room, its emptiness no longer making her uncomfortable. She heard heavy footsteps climbing up the stairway: her ten minutes were up. Diving to the bench by the window, she placed herself under the light.

_You want to save me? _she thought to herself, listening to the grinding of a key in the lock. _Fine, save me; send me to my salvation. But I'll make the rules first. _

The Doll Maker entered, dropping three paper bags onto the wooden floor and letting Anna's backpack slide off his shoulder. His black trench coat was a striking shadow; a large field of darkness that seemed to enlarge his tall figure. He looked at her curiously, noting the change in her posture. She was looking out the window, staring down at something on the street. In silence, he began to move towards her, but she stopped him.

"Those women down there, in the park," she mused, "they sit there on those benches, laughing away at their own lives, leaving their children to run around and around in circles. Look; I'm sure you've seen it. They talk and talk and talk non-stop and they pay no attention to their own children until they cry, practically screaming in pain. There's one now: a little girl was being teased by that little boy; only when he threw dirt at her did anyone intervene, did the mother step away from her trivial conversation. She's sitting there laughing, not noticing a thing about her daughter. And that's just in the park alone; what about everything else in life?" She turned to face him, the dark figure with the graying hair and deepening lines creasing his face towering over her. "Those adults," she continued, letting her voice rant on to match the style of the Doll Maker himself, "those so-called parents, don't realize how they utterly destroy those children, leaving them to rot in the lives that aren't even their own. It's pathetic, isn't it?"

She looked up at him, letting her sunken eyes gleam. He stared at her, his lips still lined in a deep frown. "I won't fight you; it seems futile to do so now. I mean, you've won. I've been struggling against you for the past twelve years, and what good has that done me? None; absolutely none. Thinking on it now, it seems pointless to continue. Why push on through the suffering of life in a world with methods crueler than your own, Doll Maker?

"And I put all my faith in him, in Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps that was the greatest mistake of all: putting one's hopes on a man, a singular, human man. For all of his promises, he still can't save me. He can't do a bloody thing. So here I am, waiting for him and he is nowhere to be found. If Sherlock could find me, he would have done so by now, wouldn't he have? I don't know…I just don't know anymore." She felt a singular tear streak down her cheek, and she felt herself taken back for a split moment. Maybe for a moment she did doubt Sherlock, and as she brushed that tear away hastily, she looked up at the Doll Maker. If she was going to convince him on anything, it would have to be now, while she appeared emotionally vulnerable.

"I've been running away from you for so long because I was afraid; because deep down, even as a child, I knew you were right. I knew that, in one way or another, I was better off dying at five. Look at me, eighteen years old and an absolute wreck. I have nightmares every night now; I suffer from extreme forms of anxiety; I can't seem to connect to anyone my age, or any age for that matter. And nobody was there to help me; nobody at all. I live in a society where innocence is shot down from every angle and left to rot. You were always right, Doll Maker, whoever you are. You were always right; it just took time for me to accept that."

She stopped, allowing herself to take a deep breath; this was certainly taking things too far, but it was necessary when dealing with a madman. If she could get inside his head, she could do something, anything, to help her escape that apartment. If she could somehow prove she accepted his ideals as he believed them, then maybe she could switch the power in the game.

He reached out hand, letting his fingers brush against her cheek. He gave a weary smile, and Anna instantly knew she had done it: she had convinced the craziest person in the world that she could be just as desperate as he could. And as disgusting as she felt in that moment, she held back the pressing desire to grab that hand, snatch the blunt scissor blades from the bathroom, and slice his throat open and watch him bleed. She just wanted to watch him bleed.

"Alright," he whispered, his voice soothing. "Alright, my doll. I knew you would understand soon enough." He let her go, returning to the backpack and handing it off to her. "Go clean yourself up. It won't be long, I promise, but we have to do this the right way."

She opened her bag, noting the soaps, the makeup, a strange fabric that she could only assume to be a nightgown. None of those things were poised to assist her escape. As the Doll Maker made his way to whitewashed door, Anna abruptly made her demands.

"I won't fight you anymore. You can paralyze me, finish what you started, on two conditions."

He looked expectantly at her, stone cold in those faded eyes.

"One: you don't touch any of the children down there in that park while I am still alive. Restrain yourself; you can wait until this is all over to move on to them."

"And the second?"

"You give Sherlock Holmes a twenty-four hour notice."

He cocked his head, inclining it with a slight glimmer in his eyes. "Why?"

"You said you wanted to make him pay for taking me away. Fine, make him pay; make him realize he couldn't save me. I'm inclined to agree after twelve years of false hope from that man, and I know the best way to do it. Give him twenty-four hours of agony, let him panic at the prospects of failure. That is what he fears the most: not the just failure itself, but the knowledge he will lose no matter how hard he tries."

There was a pause he the Doll Maker considered her offer. Anna felt herself twitch slightly, stalking him with her eyes. With a dark nod, he turned away from her, pulling out the key and unlocking the door. "He has until five pm, but I will give him notice. We begin your process in two hours."

"Wait!" Anna repealed, but he was gone, his heavy footsteps already crashing down the stairs. Flying to the door, she grabbed the doorknob, shaking it in hopes that he would have forgotten to lock the door. He didn't. Racing back to the window, she watched him stride away, moving towards a bus and disappearing around the corner. In the distance was a clock tower, its yellowing face cut only by its black hands.

"Ten am now; assuming he gets a card within an hour, he'll only have six hours…I'm sorry, Sherlock," she muttered under her breath.

With nothing else to do, Anna made her way into the bathroom, twisting the shower head on and letting steam fill the room. Digging through her bag, she tugged at the bottom flap until she could pull out the blue glass cylinder. Holding it up to the light, she watched the solution slink along the edges; so the Doll Maker had never found it.

She remembered Sherlock's instructions perfectly, as if he had told her yesterday: _Take that before the Doll Maker gives you the anesthetic and you'll be able to maintain all functions and consciousness. However, it won't work if you use it more than five hours before he gives you that first shot._

"He did say two hours," she muttered, breaking the blue glass and adjusting the syringe. She grimaced slightly as needle bit into her vein. The sharp stabbing sensation made arm throb, each nerve screaming aloud at the intrusive object. Slowly, she pushed the top of the syringe, watching as the solution was injected into her arm. There was a strange warmth emanating from that point, and a small dot of blood seeped out from where the needle had once cut through her skin. Wiping it away with the flat part of her thumb, she saw the smeared spot already shifting to a dark, brown stain.

"I trust you, Sherlock. Please don't lose this game." 


	29. Chapter 29: Lost Boys

**Chapter 29: Lost Boys **

"Get out."

"What?" John said at the sudden break of Sherlock's taciturnity. It had been the first thing he had said all morning. When John had woken up around eight, Sherlock was curled up in his reading chair with _The Little White Bird_; when John returned from the store around nine, Sherlock remained in the exact same chair, only with a different novel. When he had asked about it, Sherlock ignored him entirely, granting him the same silence as before. Now, at ten, Sherlock broke his vow of silence.

"Get out," he repeated coldly, looking up at his flat mate with a dead seriousness.

John shrugged loosely, taking his mug of tea from his laptop and muttering something about Mrs. Hudson. As he shuffled out of the room, Sherlock finally stood up, clearing his thoughts with a simple gesture of his hands to enter the Mind Palace. As he paced up and down the living room of 221B Baker Street, he closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to consolidate everything he had just read and string the information together. The keywords flew around his mind excitedly:

_Fairies…goats…Kensington Gardens…_

His mind ticked away, flipping through the pages of the novels and linking everything bit by bit. In a matter of minutes, ideas and characters and words were flung together like pieces of a puzzle. Taking on the mind of the Doll Maker, Sherlock's brain pulsed with a million different distortions, adding more keywords along the way:

_Immortality…freedom…Anna Huntington…_

Suddenly, his mind stopped still as two words remained. With a singular laugh, he opened his eyes with a growing grin. "Oh, how simple; how utterly simple."

His body sprang into action immediately. "John!" he hollered, "we're leaving." Tearing around the room, he grabbed his coat and scarf and tossed them on. When John reappeared in the doorway, he threw him his coat and scarf, which the army doctor clumsily caught off-guard.

"Now hang on," John cried out as Sherlock shoved him out the door, "what just happened? Did you figure something out?"

"Yes," Sherlock called with exasperation, flying down the stairs and bursting through the front door.

"And?"

"Scotland Yard."

"Scotland Yard?"

"Yes, John; we are going to Scotland Yard. Now."

* * *

"How long has this suspect been dead?"

"Ten years," the intern replied, flipping through a mass of papers and pulling out a death certificate. Lestrade glanced over it momentarily before giving a long sigh. The morning had been sluggish, to say the least; the graying sky had covered the city and he could hear the rain's drizzle tapping lightly against the window pane behind him. His office was dark, filled with shadows even under the white artificial lights.

He had only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before. Despite John's orders, he could not bring himself to rest when he got back home. So at one am, while the rest of his family slept peacefully, Lestrade remained wide awake with a strange anxiety. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong, something terribly wrong, with the Doll Maker case. With this new insomnia, Lestrade found himself running through each fact, each minute detail of the case folder, rereading all of Maynard's old notes and Sherlock's initial observations. How Maynard could ever retire with a case like this unsolved, Lestrade had no idea. Eventually, though, he somehow managed to doze off, awaking to his usual alarm at seven and dragging himself to the intern progress meetings at eight.

Lestrade gazed at the clock in front of him: 11:03. Three hours had stretched on, filled with the insufferable drabble of the trainees. What should have taken them ten minutes to say had somehow been expanded to half an hour presentations, all based off one bloody fingerprint. It was maddening; what was worse was that he had to pretend to care about them. He returned his attention to the intern (whose name was Heartly, or was it Heartson?) sitting in front of him, a well-dressed young man with shaggy hair and a smart trench coat; dressed for the part of detective, totally incapable of detective work.

"Alright," Lestrade sighed, handing the death certificate over to the young man. "Now, let's go over this one more time, just for the sake of detail; what evidence do you have, outside of that one fingerprint, that this Bryans fellow was the one who raped Kelly Everett fifty years ago?"

As Heartly began shuffling through his stack of papers once more, Lestrade heard his secretary's voice from outside his office. Looking up, he saw the poor woman trying to hold back two familiar figures. Sherlock simply ignored her, walking right past her restraining arm with nothing but a shrug. John politely touched the woman's shoulders, replying with a more apologetic gesture and stepping around her patiently.

The glass door to his office swung open violently as Sherlock strode in, his dark coat flying out behind him. "Get him out, now," he stated, not even looking once at the intern as he went directly to the window behind his desk, watching the clouds settle over the city with a grim disposition. John entered a moment later, standing by the door with a look of uniform confusion spread across his face and a worried expression deep in his eyes.

Heartly looked up at the intruders with surprise. "Excuse me," he cried out, "I was just in the middle of—"

"Get out. Now." Lestrade said harshly with a menacing glare. The man jumped out of his chair, grumbling something towards John as he left. With this new excitement, Lestrade turned towards Sherlock. "Well?" he asked quickly. "Have you figured out anything about the Doll Maker? What's going on?"

"Wendy Darling," was Sherlock's only reply.

There was a pause as John and Lestrade took those two words in. It didn't seem right to either of them, the nature of that name. It wasn't a random name, it couldn't have been. There was something so vaguely reminiscent about the name, a glimmer from the past. From outside the office, the sounds of the bustling detectives and ringing phones seeped into the air, muted by glass walls. While the other detectives were out there dealing with vandalism, theft, murders, they were simply trying to recall a lost memory.

"Why does that sound so familiar?" John asked, his forehead clenching in confusion and deep thought.

"I know why," Lestrade broke out. John watched as he ran one of his hands through his graying hair. He shook his head and gave a small chuckle. "Caroline loves that story."

"What story is it?"

"Peter Pan."

"Precisely," Sherlock finally said, turning away from the window to face them. The expression on his face was grim, but there was a light in his eyes; he had this all figured out. "It took you two long enough to remember that."

"Wait, what?" John asked incredulously.

"You know this story, John!" Sherlock bellowed in exasperation. "Peter Pan, flying boy with a ridiculous fairy following him around, breaks into a house and takes three children to Neverland, a place where kids never grow old. They all live with the Lost Boys, and there are Indians and Pirates and other bits of ridiculous play matter—"

"I know what you're talking about," John broke in.

"Then what's the problem?"

"You're saying that the Doll Maker is modeling Anna Huntington into Wendy Darling. How exactly did you reach that conclusion?" John questioned him.

"With these," Sherlock held up two novels for his two companions to see: one of them being _The Little White Bird _by J.M Barrie, the other being unfamiliar to John. "The Doll Maker left us plenty of clues; we just had to know what context they were in. The goat and the quote about fairies were the obvious hints; obscure enough to keep us in the dark, but clear indicators nonetheless. Peters figured it out when he heard where Natasha's body and the goat carving had been found: in the Kensington Royal Gardens."

"I don't see the connect—"

"Quiet, Lestrade, I'm getting there. Peters found all these in _The Little White Bird_. John thought it was a satire piece; he was only partially right. Chapters 13 to 18 contained stories about Peter Pan, a baby boy who flew out of his crib and into the Kensington Gardens when he was only a week old. Peter grew up among the fairies, many of whom tried to trick him into remaining with them forever, hence the reason why Natasha had 'don't let the fairies take me' written onto her wrists.

"Peter met a human girl named Mamie, who was lost in the Gardens for a couple nights. She was deemed his 'friend', but she chose to return to the human world rather than remain in the world of the fairies. However, her parting gift to the lonely boy was an imaginary goat, thus the goat carving on the tree in the Kensington Gardens."

"Okay, fair enough," Lestrade broke in. "But where did Wendy Darling come from?"

"Again, if you remain silent, I will tell you," Sherlock muttered, pulling something from the inside of his coat's pocket. Holding it up in the air between his fingers, John widened his eyes at the familiar sight of the Doll Maker's calling card, the china doll sketch taunting them once more.

"When the hell did he give you that?"

"Mycroft found it last night, which means the Doll Maker was at the flat sometime before 10:00 pm."

"And? What does it say?" Lestrade pressed.

"'The clock is ticking for the darling.'"

"What does that—"

"In case you cannot tell, I am about to explain that, Lestrade. There are two references within that statement; two that fall perfectly in line with this novel." Sherlock held up the second novel, which John strode over and snatched from his hand.

"_Peter and Wendy_, by—"

"J.M. Barrie," Sherlock completed. "The clock is ticking: the reference to the alligator with the clock within its stomach that followed the pirate Captain Hook. Obviously I am the antagonist of the Doll Maker's mission; a ticking clock is meant to be a threatening phrase, a warning of imminent failure to me. And 'the darling': an allusion to Wendy Darling, the only Darling that really held any value to Peter Pan. It makes perfect sense; this is how the Doll Maker views his world. The freedom, the immortality; I should have seen this earlier, much earlier. The answer is all in Neverland."

"Hang on, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Believe me, I know this story pretty well, but I don't see how this is what the Doll Maker sees in Anna."

"I agree with Lestrade," John jumped in, flipping through the pages of _Peter and Wendy_. "This all seems rather far-fetched. Besides, Wendy Darling was taken to Neverland when she was ten or eleven, not eighteen."

"Expand your dense minds for just a moment and you two simpletons would be able to see that that hardly matters," Sherlock erupted, his voice quickening with a quavering passion. John could see his shoulders shaking with excitement and anticipation. While normally he would take some offense to that remark, he had to admit that he was rather intrigued by the theory Sherlock was offering.

"The Doll Maker justifies paralyzing these children by offering them freedom from the mortal world of adults; he believes he grants them immortality. Don't you remember? Ad immortale facere: to make immortal; that's all he wants for those children. That parallels Peter Pan in Neverland; he takes those children lost in the Kensington Gardens, abandoned by their parents (rightly so if the kids aren't even functioning properly enough to get out of the Gardens to begin with), and puts them in Neverland, where they never grow old. All those children he paralyzed, all those he 'saved' from their parents, they are the Lost Boys.

"There's only one person who voluntarily left Neverland, and that was Wendy Darling. Peter Pan offered her permanent youth and she rejected it. She returned to her home, to her family, to her life, to growing up. That's how the Doll Maker sees Anna Huntington, as the girl who escaped; the girl who ran away from paradise.

"Wendy Darling grew up and moved on with her life. But whereas Peter Pan watched her age from afar, the Doll Maker never let go. He means to 'save' her from the world; he means to return her to Neverland. That is why eighteen year old Anna is such an integral part of the Doll Maker's obsession. If even she can return, than any child can go to Neverland. If he succeeds in killing Anna, his raid will never end. Anna Huntington is only the beginning."

Lestrade and John stared at Sherlock, eyes wide as they absorbed everything they had just heard. It was all there; just about every detail was accounted for. Suddenly Anna's kidnapping had become much more real to them. Knowing what the Doll Maker intended to do with her only made the need to find her more imperative. The shock that the same harmless bedtime story he had been telling Caroline for years now could be used to kill Anna left Lestrade with a cold sweat.

"So what does that tell us about her location?" John said, his voice shaking slightly.

"Plenty," Sherlock began, but he was suddenly interrupted by a harsh metallic chirping. John's coat pocket had begun to vibrate, a pale blue light flashing from under the thin fabric. Just as he reached in to silence the phone, Sherlock held out his hand as a gesture of protest. "Pick it up."

John's forehead clenched slightly as he pulled out the phone, the ringtone still playing. Nobody ever called him: if Lestrade or Sherlock ever needed him, they would text; the hospital's emergency ward only used the pagers; Mycroft chose to shove him into the back of a black limo, and Harry's resentment made the likelihood of her calling beyond miniscule. As he read the name that flashed up with the caller id, he looked up at Sherlock with a glance of confusion.

"It's Mrs. Hudson," he announced quietly as he pressed the accept button and pulled the phone up to his ear. "Hello?"

Sherlock and Lestrade watched silently as they listened to a muffled wail come from the cell phone. "Calm down, Mrs. Hudson," John consoled, but the wailing grew louder. Sherlock held out his hand, but John waved him away.

"To hell I'm giving you the phone," he said, holding a hand over the receiver. "You're only going to say something that makes things worse."

"Have I ever done that?"

"You usually do," John replied cynically, putting the phone back up to his ear. "Are you okay? What happened? Just take a deep breath for me…"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I make things worse?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow in thought. "I make people get to the point quicker. How does that leave them any worse off?"

"That might be the problem," Lestrade replied with a huff.

"What?" John finally cried out, the skin on his face turning extremely pale. After some more wailing from the other end he simply said, "Is that all it said? Are you sure? Okay, I have to go, Mrs. Hudson. I'll have Lestrade send some officers to the flat. Don't worry, you are perfectly safe," and hung up quickly.

"Lestrade," he ordered, "have some of your officers stop by 221A Baker Street."

"Will do. Why?" Lestrade asked as he picked up the phone and dialed in some numbers.

"The Doll Maker was just there; he gave Mrs. Hudson a calling card and asked her to give it to us."

"And?" Sherlock jumped up, eyes bright.

"It said: Her heart stops at five o'clock." John went another shade paler. "We have six hours to find where Anna is. Sherlock, you said you knew where he could be keeping her, right?"

"Correct," Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Lestrade, have all your men search any warehouse in Bloomsbury."

"Why Bloomsbury?"

"Anna's map put indicators around certain warehouses in that area. And the Darlings lived in Bloomsbury."

* * *

"Just relax."

Anna winced slightly as the Doll Maker carefully pressed the first needle into her arm. She sat on the sofa, heavily breathing in the dense air coming in from the open window, no doubt thickening with the light drizzle still falling. A heavy vibration rang through the air as the bell of the clock tower struck twelve times: five more hours.

When the Doll Maker had returned from Sherlock's flat, Anna had been waiting for him. A quick shower and the makeup he had supplied brightened her complexion immensely, and she sat on the sofa in the long white nightgown he had left for her. Heart pounding, she listened as the key ground into the lock and the old door swung open. A tall shadow filled the doorway, a menacing reminder of what was coming. The Doll Maker slowly walked over to her, taking off his black coat and brushing his hand over her cheek endearingly.

"You're going to be alright," he said quietly, looking straight into her eyes. "You will be free, I promise Elise."

Anna only nodded at him, staring with a cool face and cold eyes. He turned away, stalking over to the dresser in the main room and kneeling onto one knee. Slowly, he pulled out the bottom drawer and lifted out the white box. Anna's pulse quickened momentarily at the familiar sight. Removing the top, the Doll Maker pulled out one of the syringes.

"What are those injections?" she asked, hoping for some sort of information before she would plunge into darkness.

"Nothing you need to worry about, my doll," he replied, standing up and returning to her body on the sofa. "This will make you sleep. You won't even feel the one after that. Just relax."

_Five hours, _she thought as the needle pierced her skin.

Anna took a few deep breaths with one last look into the Doll Maker's dark eyes, the madness screaming through them. With a long sigh, she let her eyelids shut and fell back against the sofa, feigning unconsciousness. He paused for a few moments, waiting to see if she was truly out. She let her body go limp, falling further back onto the sofa.

He tapped her arm twice, waiting to see if there was any reaction, any indication that she maintained consciousness. While she remained lifeless, she listened as he rummaged through the box once more, and the same piercing sensation bit into her arm: the paralysis solution.

The needle pulled away from her skin and sofa shifted as the Doll Maker walked away into the kitchen. Anna remained still, her arm numb around the second shot.

_Five h—_

An excruciating pulse ran along her arm and down her spine, cutting off her own thought. She fought back the desire to scream as the solution ran through her veins, burning the muscles under her skin. It was an electric shock to her system, a bolt of fire that made her entire body want to collapse within itself. Each nerve shook violently, trembling under extreme agony. So there was a reason to render the children unconscious outside of simple compliance: to spare them from the pain, a pain that she and Sherlock had not accounted for.

It took everything within her not scream as she felt the almost immediate effects of the injection: her muscles had begun to seize up slightly, the feeling of liquid pooling within them. While she twitched her foot to test the symptoms, her toes were already starting to lose sensation. Dr. Watson had been right; the paralysis compound did work fast.

_Somebody help me_, she screamed through the darkness.

* * *

**[A/N: The final product of this "short story" is actually somewhere between 35-37 chapters total. Forgive me; I know this is really starting to drag on…] **

**The Final Encounter begins June 20th.**


	30. Chapter 30: Two-Man Raid

**Chapter 30: Two-Man Raid**

_All warehouse searches have turned up negative—Lestrade_

Sherlock threw his phone back into his pocket, grumbling slightly as John made his way back to the park bench with two cups of coffee. They had remained in the Kensington Gardens area once Lestrade had sent off his search teams to Bloomsbury, ready on the off chance that the Doll Maker returned. Damp under the drizzle of the cloudy fall afternoon, they waited for hours and hours in a cold silence. What was there to talk about? Sherlock remained deep within the recesses of his mind, thinking through the stories over and over again. John let anticipation and tension build up in his stomach, not able to shake off the feeling that something terrible was going to happen.

As John handed him one of the steaming cups, Sherlock looked up at a nearby clock tower. John matched his gaze, gaping at the time.

"It's 4:15," he remarked, somewhat shocked that the time had gone by so quickly. Sherlock grumbled again, taking a sip from the Styrofoam cup. John faced the detective next to him, his gray eyes pleading for something, for anything. "Has Lestrade found anything?"

"No," Sherlock replied tersely, aggravated by the lack of results. It didn't make any sense; the Doll Maker had to have read Peter Pan. He would have known that Wendy Darling lived in Bloomsbury; Anna would have to be somewhere in that vicinity.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "We need to find her. There's only 45 minutes left, if that."

"I know, but the Doll Maker isn't playing by his own rules. She should be in Bloomsbury, but—"

Sherlock cut himself off, looking up along the tree line suddenly towards one of the surrounding buildings. John matched his sight, only to see a woman and her child standing along the balcony of an old apartment. The little boy was wailing in the drizzling rain as the woman picked him up and carried him back inside. "Oh, how simple; how obvious," he muttered.

"Sherlock, what are you—"

Sherlock tore his phone out of his pocket, typing something into his search box at an insane pace. Within moments, his eyes widened and he yelled something up at John.

"Let's go; we can make it!"

Sherlock dropped his coffee onto the grass, abruptly turning around with his coat flying out behind him. John had no idea what was going on as he followed his friend out of the Kensington Gardens gates. Running off to the nearest street and hailing a cab, Sherlock motioned to his companion to hurry up. It was only when Sherlock (recklessly, John would say) stepped directly in front of a vehicle did a cab stop for them, and the two men jumped in.

"Where are we going?"

"Guildford and Grenville Street; 14 Guildford Street," Sherlock directed the cab driver, before hurriedly pulling out his phone once more and texting the same address to Lestrade.

"J.M. Barrie lived along Guildford and Grenville; Wendy Darling lived in an apartment numbered 14," he explained. "Anna isn't in a warehouse; she's in an apartment. The Doll Maker was playing by the rules all along, John."

* * *

"4:30; Sherlock, we made it."

John hopped out of the cab and threw some notes at the cabbie. Glancing towards his watch, the knot of anxiety in his stomach began to dissipate slightly. They had done it; they had found the Doll Maker. With thirty minutes to spare, they would just be able to save Anna. Sherlock had done it: he had won. And while they may not have been out of the woods just yet, it certainly gave John the elated feeling of hope.

But the notes flung towards the driver fluttered onto the floor of the cab. The cabbie wasn't paying attention to John; he was looking up over his head with wide eyes of disbelief. John clenched his eyebrows in confusion, wondering what in the world could be distracting the man. Reality seeped through the elation, and the sound of the murmuring crowd beginning to form around the apartment they had just pulled up by grew. A woman finally screamed "call the police!," her piercing voice shattering through the air around them. Following the cabbie's gaze, John turned around and looked up. His heart almost stopped.

High above Guildford Street, a white nightgown fluttered in the damp air. From the top window of the apartment building, a young girl stood on the ledge, dark hair flying around in the wet wind. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her head lying on her shoulder. Bare toes poked from the edge of the stone walls, making John's legs tingle at the thought of falling from that height. From where he was standing, he couldn't tell if she was conscious or not; the only thing he could be sure of was that Anna Huntington was ready to commit suicide.

Sherlock gazed at Anna for a moment before running the opposite direction from the apartment door. He pushed his way past the growing crowd of bystanders and into the now empty park across the street. John followed, stopping as Sherlock turned around to survey the apartment building on Guildford Street.

"He said 5:00," John said angrily. "The bastard said 5:00; what the hell is she doing hanging out from that window at 4:30?"

"He meant the compound would begin to settle at five," Sherlock responded. John turned to his companion with surprise; there was no anger or outrage in the man's voice, only the cold calculatory intonation of a running computer. He watched as the detective's eyes continued jumping from area to area, analyzing everything in the environment.

_Nightgown and hair maintains flexibility in the wind: she hasn't been out on that window ledge for more than five minutes or else the drizzle would have weighed everything down. Shoulders are farther out the window than her feet: there is a rope or a band around her waist hidden under the gown that is holding her up. Judging from the trajectory of her body, the rope is roughly 10 meters long: there is a door on the other side of the apartment that is the anchor for that rope; open that door and she falls. Head is resting on shoulder: Anna is still conscious or else gravity would be dictating that her head be falling against her chest. I can't see her breathing patterns from here…_

"Sherlock!" John's voice finally broke into his thoughts. "We have to get in there, right now."

"Agreed," Sherlock replied when his phone gave off a singular chime. He reached into his pocket, reading the message and giving off a small smile. This was perfect; just the time he needed to deal with the madman without imbecilic interventions. While John's eyes questioned the gesture, Sherlock handed him the phone, watching the man grimace as he read it.

_Bad reception at this warehouse; just got your message. Will be there in twenty minutes. DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT BACKUP!—Lestrade _

"We don't have twenty bloody minutes!" John shouted in frustration, looking at Sherlock who now had a gleam in his eyes. The detective snatched his phone back and instantly began forming a text. John looked at him quizzically.

"You're not actually telling Lestrade we're going in."

"No; why would I do that?"

"Then who are you texting now?"

"Don't worry about it," the dark man replied, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Shaking his head lightly, John reached behind his jacket and pulled out his gun, watching as Sherlock did the same. "What, you brought yours this time?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock smirked, weighing the metallic shape in his hands. "I take all of your 'gifts' seriously."

"Ha ha, very funny, Sherlock. What's our plan?"

"Break the door down, find the Doll Maker, get the girl. Simple enough."

"A two-man raid?"

"Precisely."

"How do we know the Doll Maker is still there?" John asked, glancing towards the apartment. The crowd had grown to twice its initial size; someone had already tipped the press. Bystanders and reporters stood in the drizzling rain, watching the girl who hung from the window ledge.

Sherlock's stern temperament finally changed, but not in the way John expected it to. "He will be," he said as his face hardened and his voice deepened to a predatory growl. Under the dark curls were cold eyes, narrowed with a gruesome excitement that John had rarely ever seen. This was meant to be Sherlock's revenge, and John pitied the man who suffered that wrath. With one last glance towards each other, they ran back towards the apartment, shoving through the tight crowd mercilessly. At the door, John motioned to break the thing down with his shoulder, but Sherlock stopped him.

"No doubt he's been expecting us," he muttered, instead wrapping his hand around the metal doorknob and twisting. There was no resistance, only a muffled click, and as the reporters flashed their cameras in their faces the two men slipped through the front door.

* * *

"All units to 14 Guildford Street immediately. I repeat, all units searching Bloomsbury warehouses report to 14 Guildford Street!"

Lestrade turned his walkie off as he jumped into his own police car. Russo turned the ignition on as the emergency lights began to flash. Zooming down the street, the adrenaline pumped through the Detective Inspector's heart. This was the chance he had been waiting for; all those sleepless nights, all the searches, all the frustrating memories led up to this. This was the chance to close the Doll Maker file for good, and there was no damned way he was missing that.

He listened as the police radio mumbled on about other emergencies in the area. Those other emergencies seemed trivial compared to their mission: the minor burns, the petty thefts, the child missing in the mall all seemed so irrelevant in that moment. Now that was something the interns could deal with; he had other priorities. Only one thought burned in his mind: catch that son-of-a-bitch Doll Maker, beat the shit out of him, and rescue Anna Huntington. Well, the second bit was more of a personal desire, but regardless…

The radio droned as Russo sped on, dodging the London traffic as best as he could in rush hour. Suddenly, though, something grabbed his attention from the static reception.

"_Unit needed at 14 Guildford Street, possible suicide—"_

"Hang on," Lestrade muttered as he picked up the radio transmission and clicked the return button. "What did you just say? Requesting further detail."

"_Units needed at 14 Guildford Street. Potential suicide: female threatening to jump out of window. Callers report girl with brown hair in white nightgown. Callers also report two armed men entering the building."_

"We're on it. Oh, and send an ambulance." Lestrade slammed the transmission back into its holder, running a hand through his hair. "Shit, that's got to be them. What part of 'do not enter without backup' do they not understand?" With a sympathetic nod, Russo sped a bit faster.

* * *

Sherlock and John looked through the dark entrance hall, guns held in stealth mode. There were two doors on either side of the main room, both closed. John and Sherlock took a door, running through the empty rooms behind them in a searching manner.

"Clear," John called.

"Clear," Sherlock called as they met back in the main room. The darkness was their disadvantage; the Doll Maker, at 6'3", would be able to overpower either one of them quite easily if he got behind them. Moving along, the two men felt the heavy tension building in the air. John let his military training take over, lifting his arm and pointing the gun directly in front of him. His senses tightened as he tried to listen for any sort of movement on the floor above them. He twitched as some wooden boards creaked from the ceiling direction. Facing Sherlock, he pointed upwards. Sherlock nodded gravely at the stolid solider and followed his lead.

At the end of the hall stood a spiral staircase, seemingly the only way to get towards the top floor. The only source of light in the hall came from the ceiling light above the staircase, a gray reflection seeping in. Bits of dust were floating through the air, and each movement the two men made sent them flying in a flurry. Together, they went up the steps, carefully placing their weight along the side of the wood where the most support would be (more support meant less creaking, which meant better stealth). As they reached the next floor, they were faced with two more doors, both opened just enough for the light from the windows within to pour in.

There was a deafening silence, one that gave John chills. During his service in Afghanistan, he had learned one thing: silence was not good. Silence meant that the enemy was waiting for them. The worst ambushes he had ever been in always began in this sort of muted quiet, nothing filling the air but the ringing of stillness and the beating of one's own heart; they ended with the roar of gunshots and pouring blood. Silence was not good, not good at all.

Sherlock looked up at the remaining steps, calculating four floors above them. Anna would obviously be on that top floor; the Doll Maker could be anywhere between that. The only way to find him would be to check every room, the fastest way being for the two of them to split up. Turning to Dr. Watson, he saw that he had come to the same conclusion. John pointed to the door on his right, claiming that to be his domain. As Sherlock nodded in consent, John mouthed one more thing to him in the chilling silence.

"Be careful."

With that, they separated.

John tapped his door open, cringing as the hinges creaked with a high pitch. _So much for stealth,_ he thought as he stepped through into an empty living space. Listening for any sign of movement, he could hear the rustle of Sherlock's long trench coat in the room across from him and thus attached himself to that sound; as long as that rustle remained relatively constant, he knew his friend was alright. Another step forward allowed John to take an initial scan of the apartment he stood in. Two windows, two doors, one kitchen area: the only places to hide were behind the two doors.

He briskly made his way to the bedroom door, still keeping tabs on the rustle of the trench coat in the room across from him that was—wait, how could he still hear Sherlock's coat so clearly? If he had just entered the bedroom that was the farthest point away from Sherlock, and assuming Sherlock was simultaneously moving away from him, how could the rustling still be so…

John whipped around himself and pointed the gun, but it was too late. There was a deep grunt as a heavy force flew directly into his stomach, forcing the army doctor to the ground. His mind blacked out for a second, trying to process the pain with a cry. Curling up on the cool wood, John watched as the Doll Maker's black trench coat fluttered out the door. "Sherlock!" he hollered as the door shut and a loud grinding noise preceded a heavy thud. Crawling his way over to the entrance door, he latched on to the doorknob, confirming what he already knew: the Doll Maker had locked him in.

Two sets of heavy footsteps could be heard; one running up the wooden staircase and the other striding across the adjacent apartment. As the sound of one of the trench coats grew softer, the other grew, and John peered through the keyhole to see Sherlock's figure standing in front of the apartment door.

"Argh!" John yelled out once again, shocks of pain still reverberating from his stomach to all of his crumpled body. The wooden door shouldn't have been too hard to break down, but the attack had rendered him unable to get off of the floor for the moment. He would recover in five or ten minutes, there was no doubt about that; but was that too much time? Taking a few deep, but still shaky, breaths, the army doctor tried to collect his thoughts, which were running a million directions in once. His mind raced from concern to Sherlock to Anna to his own body to what he had seen of the Doll Maker.

"Go!" Sherlock heard John yell through the door. "Go! I'm fine." With that, Sherlock silently darted up the stairs. As long as John could still talk, he would be okay. Besides, from where he saw John's arm holding, there would be no immediate organ damage; a blunt punch to the liver wouldn't kill him. What angered Sherlock the most was that he should have seen this attack coming; of course the Doll Maker would try and separate them. By blocking off John, there would be no way to capture the madman and save the girl at the same time.

In that moment, he had two choices: follow the Doll Maker or pull Anna in from the window.

Sherlock listened as the Doll Maker's feet ran up the stairs, and he pursued with intensity. The two of them flew up two more floors before the Doll Maker stopped climbing and took a turn to his left instead. A wooden door swung open, the familiar black trench coat running into the main room of the apartment and abruptly stopping. Sherlock skidded to a halt in the doorframe, watching the dark shadow that stood before him.

"Sherlock Holmes," the figure greeted with a deep voice, still leaving his back towards him.

"Doll Maker."


	31. Chapter 31: Options

**Chapter 31: Options**

Molly stood in the metallic morgue, filling out a form on the most recent body that had been admitted. It was an easy task; the man had died of old age, so there was very little autopsy she had to attend to. With one last check and a dainty signature, she pushed the body back into its refrigerated little box in the wall and locked the cover door.

Looking around her cold office, she gave a small sigh; that was her last "client" for the day, meaning she could go home fairly soon. But home meant nothing for the young mortician; the only thing there was her kitten, and it could only provide her a few hours of solace before the loneliness impeded. What was she doing with her life? All this work finalizing the lives of others with their death certificates while she couldn't even really begin her own. Perhaps things would be different if she found someone; someone to support her, someone she could relate to, someone who would always be there. A tall man, with a smooth touch and deep intellect; dark curls, bottomless eyes, collected smirk…

"No Molly," she muttered as she shook her head, once again finding herself thinking of Sherlock Holmes. "That's enough." Looking at the digital clock above the door, she read the time: 4:32; she could leave in exactly 28 minutes. 28 minutes to think about anything other than—

Her thoughts were interrupted when her phone vibrated, clattering against the metal surface it sat on. Molly swiped it off her desk and looked at the sender, her heart fluttering: _Sherlock Holmes_.

"No," she said, dropping the phone back onto her desk. She took a deep breath, trying to assert her own mental independence. "You don't have to listen to him; he can go get his own stupid chemicals if he wants them that badly. You are not his delivery girl."

But her fingers twitched slightly as she came to a different conclusion: what if he actually needed her? There were times he had depended on her; after all, she had helped him fake his own suicide. How could she ignore him at a time of dire need? But was it fair to be his carrier pigeon? She did deserve better… As her mind vacillated, Molly finally gave a huff and picked up the phone. Trembling slightly, she pressed _Read Message_.

Her eyes widened as she read the tiny print of text that illuminated her cell. It wasn't just a list of chemicals, it was a whole lot more. "Oh," she gasped, "oh, um, okay. Okay, I can do that." She scanned the text once more, re-reading every word before shoving the phone into the pocket of her white lab coat and running out of the morgue, heels clicking loudly against the tiled floors.

What worried her most was the last line of his message; an urgency that was almost always implied, but never actually elicited: _Do not reply; just do it._

* * *

Sherlock remained in the door frame, surveying the back of the tall figure in front of him and the room that stood before him. Of all the rooms he had seen so far in the building, this was the only one that was remotely furnished; clothes and other personal items were strewn across tables. Books and boxes were piled in miniature columns scattered like random islands around the living area. Pictures sat along a large dresser, silver frames slowly beginning to accumulate the ruddy color of rust. The familiar white boxes from Lancaster Pharmaceuticals littered the kitchen area, where it appeared he had stored the chemical containers. This was his home, the true world of a madman.

In the grey light of the drizzling afternoon, the dark figure left a long, menacing shadow in the eerie room. Sherlock remained still; so did the man. Both were huffing slightly from the immediate chase, breathing deeply to see who could regain control again first. Sherlock heard John's faint moan from two floors below, reminded of the physical power the man in front of him had. Silently, he slipped the gun he held into his jacket, hiding it within one of the inner pockets. There was no use for it; he had no intentions of killing him. At least, not now.

"Sherlock Holmes," a rough voice initiated.

"Doll Maker."

At the sound of his pseudonym, the Doll Maker cocked his head to the side with a small chuckle. His towering figure, elongated by the black trench coat, waivered slightly as the cool breeze floated in through one of the windows. Silver specks strewn through his dark hair reflected the dim light, glowing on the back of his head.

"So you've finally found me. Tell me, am I what you imagined I would be?"

Slowly, he turned around, facing the consulting detective with a grim smile. Smile lines sagged along tanned cheeks, aging him ever so slightly. Grey eyes surrounded by crow's feet gleamed up at him, cold and lifeless. He lifted his arms from his sides, the coat falling off his body with a graceful sweep. A gold chain tucked into his collar could be seen hanging limply from his neck as he turned his forearms so his palms lifted upwards in a welcoming gesture, inviting Sherlock to "deduce" him. The dark jeans and navy jumper conformed to his shape perfectly, defining the muscular nature of the tall body. But Sherlock's gaze never left the Doll Maker's face, which slowly turned into a glowering mask.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" he spat out. "Tired of playing the game?"

"What game?" Sherlock replied coolly, watching as a vein pulsed from the Doll Maker's jugular. "I found you; it's done."

"You found me because I wanted you to. I led you here, do not forget—"

"You don't actually expect me to believe that, do you?" Sherlock took a singular step through the doorway, invading the domain. The Doll Maker tilted his head, silently inquiring as to what that meant. His eyes remained cold, but Sherlock saw a muscle along his forehead twitch involuntarily.

"We both know," he continued, taking a few more slow steps into the main room, "you never meant for me to get this close. All you wanted to do was beat me, which is a fair thing; I take your prey, you take my intellect. You're a psychopath, but an emotional one; you let your mind run off with your so-called passions. A twelve-year grudge is a stupidly powerful thing, but not as ridiculously driving as your ultimate goal: 'saving' Anna Huntington. You've made mistakes, Doll Maker, and if you're only concern was beating me you would have been able to cover them better."

"I did cover th—"

"Clara and Natasha were diversions solely for me; they were puzzles, and you kept yourself quite well hidden because you were flexible enough to work around mistakes. The moment you realized you used your work knife and left those rope fibers on Clara's parents, you stopped showing up at your job. That's why Lestrade couldn't find you at any of the shipping docks."

"But Anna," Sherlock continued, eyes glowing with a chill. "Oh Anna, distracted you. Twelve years is a long time to dwell on a single girl, and you used every day to perfect your plan. So when you made a mistake, when you took Anna and she left me that map, you wouldn't divert from your plans. I found your warehouses and you panicked, but you didn't bother to change your positioning spot for Anna from Bloomsbury to anywhere else in London. Had you picked anywhere else, any other random apartment, you would have won. You really should learn to control your sentiments; it's quite irrational. But you didn't, so here we are: I win."

The Doll Maker remained silent, making no movement. Sherlock glanced at him up and down quickly before turning to leave. "Now if that is all, I will be going to get the girl hanging off the ledge. I estimate Scotland Yard will be here in ten minutes to arrest you, and I will deal with you th—"

"Hang on, Sherlock," the Doll Maker's deep voice halted him. A small grin appeared on Sherlock's face; he had drawn the madman out of his shell. The man standing before him had probably imagined this moment in such a way that glorified his own psychopathic genius; if Sherlock played into that, as quick as that would be, it would be staged, fake, boring. But if he made him desperate, made it very clear from the start that he was in control of what happened next, the power struggle that ensued would be much more alluring. Things were going to get much more interesting.

He slowly turned around, eyes narrowing at the tall figure remaining before him. The Doll Maker reached behind his back, his hand slipping into the waistband of his jeans and pulling out his handgun. Sherlock watched as the gun was lifted in front of him, the barrel pausing pointed straight towards his abdomen and continuing towards the ceiling of the apartment.

"You think you have options here," the Doll Maker cooed. "Save Wendy by capturing Peter Pan—"

"Is that what you're calling yourself?" Sherlock groaned.

"—but you are very wrong. You didn't really think I would have left anything to chance, did you?" He nudged his head upwards, and Sherlock glanced at the rough white ceiling that peeked through the blades of the rotating fan. "You know what I mean to do, don't you?"

"You're implying that whatever is holding Anna—"

"Elise," the Doll Maker corrected, to which Sherlock gave a dull eye roll.

"—back from falling out of the window is stationed right above your head and if I leave to get her, you'll shoot it down and she falls." Narrowing his eyes, he stared directly at the Doll Maker's blank face with vague irritation. In response, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his own weapon, aiming it directly at the Doll Maker's arm.

"The easiest solution would be to shoot you down before you could even pull the trigger. But you're much more elaborate than that; where's the second gun?" At the silence he got in return, Sherlock impatiently waved the gun around. "Oh, come on, it's obvious! The girl had a gun on her when she went into Warehouse 14. She trained at the Police Academy; she would have entered with the standard ambush entry position and a gun. You nabbed her from behind, she would have dropped the gun on the floor. A minute later, there is no gun; you took it. So where is the second gun?"

The Doll Maker lifted an eyebrow. "Very good," he muttered, taking his left hand and reaching around to pull out Huntington's personal gun. With great exaggeration, he pulled the gun up to his left temple, eyes gleaming with sick excitement.

"Playing the role of martyr, are we?" Sherlock spat.

"No one appreciates a humanistic psychopathic murderer more than the media," the Doll Maker countered. "This is insurance, Sherlock. Honestly, I could have cared less if Elise fell out of that window or not; she will make her point to the world simply by standing there."

"You're point being something along the lines of 'innocent children need to be saved from the horrors of adults and life, and paralyzing them grants immortality and freedom'. Fine; I could care less about your cause."

"But with you here, there's another point I can make, especially with so many reporters outside." A cruel smile appeared on the Doll Maker's lips. Sherlock continued glaring, waiting for the Doll Maker's move.

"One of two things will happen here," the man continued. "One: you leave me to rescue Elise and I shoot her support. Regardless of whether or not I have time to escape, the whole world will watch her fall; they will see that you, Sherlock Holmes, are nothing but a man, and not even your brilliance could save her from my philosophy. And the world will see how there are things even you cannot stop; that nothing can protect them from darkness. In that sense, I am saving those children from the evils in the world that you and the rest of Scotland Yard cannot protect them from.

"Two: you shoot my right arm down so I am unable to hit the support, I shoot myself with my left hand, Elise remains in that windowsill. Although you may get her body back, the world will know that I died for what I was fighting for. Those simpletons down there, the simpletons of our society; you know how easily swayed they are. To them, I will be a martyr, a man who died for a belief. You would be surprised how many people will follow that without question."

"What's stopping me from shooting you myself?" Sherlock inquired with a scowl.

"Well, there are variations within the two scenarios: you could shoot my abdomen, shoot my head, shoot my leg, wherever you choose. Regardless, if you don't kill me immediately, I can still shoot either gun, and then you leave the options to me. And don't think you can wait until Scotland Yard shows up here; if I see one officer go up those stairs I will shoot her down without a second thought. We both know," his voice deepening in a sarcastic replication of Sherlock's, "those are the two major outcomes. Either way, you lose."

"_I _lose?"

"Yes, you lose. For everyone else I'm sure the definition of winning would be saving Elise, but you are different. You don't win unless you figure me out; you can't figure me out without me being alive. I am alive as long as she falls. And you want me, don't you? It will burn you, not knowing why I did this or how I succeeded for so long. So take your pick: me or the girl."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before giving a chuckle. The Doll Maker was desperate now, making these assumptions and bluffs all so he could have a chance at winning the game. He heard the Doll Maker's feet shift slightly, the wooden floor creaking underneath him; the mastermind was growing nervous. Flashing his eyes open, he took three slow steps towards the towering figure, never breaking contact with those cold grey eyes that glowed in front of him. The gun remained pointed at the right arm, and Sherlock clicked off the safety.

"You assume," Sherlock remarked, "I need you alive to conclude your motives."

"I know your methods," the Doll Maker countered. "I read your website: The Science of Deduction. Brilliant, yes; you could probably figure out everything about me with what's in this room and my dead body, but you will never know the truth for sure. Why is the biggest question of all for you; why and how. Even if you could fathom all that, you would never get the confirmation, the exact reasoning; you would never know if you had the right answer."

"I already know the answer," Sherlock said coldly. He took one more glance around the room before returning his gaze to the man. All he had to do was provoke him…

* * *

John took another deep breath, pain still emanating from the blow to his stomach. Waves of sharpness still radiated throughout his body as he curled into a tighter ball.

With nothing else to do while his body recovered, his thoughts raced through all the training and combat missions he had gone through while in the army, searching for a time he had experienced the same sort of physical pain. While the bullet to his shoulder had been the worst of all, he couldn't remember any time that a human blow had ever been so powerful. Never had he been _hit_ hard enough that he would still be lying on the floor by now, and that was saying something. He had trained with younger men, some of them early-twenties wrestlers straight out of college; he was used to some pretty hard hits. So how had a mid-forties shipping worker brought him to his knees so easily?

The pain was slowly subsiding, so John unfurled his body and crawled his way over to the door. Breathing heavily, he listened. It was quiet; there were no more heavy footsteps, no shouting, no gunshots. The muted silence filtered the room, worrying the army doctor.

_What in the world is Sherlock doing with that madman? _he thought to himself as he reached up towards the doorknob. Pulling down on it, he remembered it was still locked. Surely he could shoot the door down, but would gun shots really be a good thing at that moment? If the Doll Maker heard them, who knows what he would try to pull? At the same time, if the Doll Maker attacked Sherlock…

_What about Anna?_ She was probably still dangling from out that windowsill. John groaned once more at his helplessness. He was so close; they had been so close. She was only four floors above him, and here he was crumpled on the ground. If they didn't hurry, her body would shut down sooner or later.

"Come on," John grunted, pulling himself up. His gut told him not to move, beseeched him to sit back down, but he refused. Stepping away from the wall, he tore his coat off of his back and wrapped it around his good shoulder. Baring his right shoulder, the army doctor wobbled to the opposite wall, grabbing it with his left hand.

With a single push, he ran straight towards the door, hitting the whitewash with a muffled thud. The wood gave slightly against his weight, a promising prospect. Trying again, John made his way back to the opposite wall, preparing himself for another attack on the door.


	32. Chapter 32: Human Anatomy

**Chapter 32: Human Anatomy **

"I already know who you are," Sherlock said coldly. He took one more glance around the room before returning his gaze to the man. All he had to do was provoke him…

"Do you now, Sherlock?" the madman inquired darkly.

"Of course I do," Sherlock began. "Your name is James Parsons. You have a degenerative genetic form of hypocalcaemia and were taking part in human trials for a drug from Lancaster Pharmaceuticals fifteen years ago."

The Doll Maker tilted his head, a curious glance towards Sherlock. "Rather grand assumptions there, don't you think?"

"They aren't assumptions." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his mind darting from detail to detail at the frightening speed of deduction. A snarl developed along his lips as his mouth began to run on. "Your shipping uniform on the sofa over there has the name badge cut off from the breast area, but you wore that uniform out in the sun quite a bit. There is a difference in shade where the badge was. There is also an imprint of the name on it. From here, all I can see is the 'Pa' part, but that is more than enough to remember out that you are James Parsons. Your name was the only 'P' in research file 993 from Lancaster Pharmaceuticals.

"How do I know you were part of the experimental research on file 993 and are currently still involved? Easy, you've been taking those injections every day recently. Your uniform and your current shirt have wrinkles all along your left arm from where you have been rolling up the sleeve, but those wrinkles are almost non-existent on the right side; instead, the right side is worn along the elbow, meaning you stretch the right sleeve the most when you bend your arm up towards your left shoulder, which is where you inject the compound.

"You've been injecting the same natural compounds into the children to petrify them: muscular paralysis due to an overdose of calcium in their bodies. For you, however, it's a muscle stabilizer. You have a chronic limp with the tendency of disappearing. Even now, your body seems perfectly fine, but your left sleeve has new creases on it; just before John and I arrived, you re-dosed yourself with the compound. That was probably the only way you could have knocked down an army doctor with a single punch, especially in your mid-forties. Take the injection, lose the limp.

"Compound 993 is a muscle stabilizer developed specifically for those who suffer from hypocalcaemia, in which the body releases too little calcium for the muscles to properly function. Muscles function through muscle fibers; myosin heads, to be specific. Calcium tightens myosin, engaging the muscles for movement; without it, your muscles don't work, hence the limp. The injections add calcium into the body, as well as a stimulant so the hypothalamus produces more calcium. Not only that, but the compound contains ATP-inhibitor. Adenosine triphosphate relaxes the myosin heads and allows for muscle relaxation, which also seems to be part of your problem; your body produces too much ATP and not enough calcium. I initially assumed the compound was stimulating the ADP, a product of ATP when muscles relax that would be easier to manipulate if only the amount of the hormone was decreased; but Lancaster is focusing on the hypothalamus, so decreasing ATP is more efficient rather than aiming for ADP.

"Your dosage allows your body's muscles to tighten for functional use by increasing calcium and decreasing your ATP. But that dosage of calcium and ATP-inhibitor is too much for someone almost half your size; that's how you paralyze the children. Their muscles tighten but they do not relax. Eventually, their muscles seize up; their heart and lungs stop, and they die. The only trace is the overwhelming level of calcium in their diagnostics.

"But normal hypocalcaemia causes twitching, not overall limping. Your case is severe, isn't it? Judging by your above average height, Doll Maker, I'd assume this is a genetic trait; height and muscle dystrophy. That's how you were drafted to the human trials for Research 993 twenty years ago; the only reason you still have access to the compound today. Compound 993 is still in development, yet it is being mass produced by Lancaster Pharmaceuticals. Why? Because all those who were previously involved in the experiments now have an increased dependency on the compound. Compound 993 was never cleared for human trial; Lancaster could not reveal the dependency to the government, so they had to continue supplying the compound to participants to keep them quiet, which is why you are now taking them every day, maybe even twice a day. The fact is that the compound is not meant to strengthen you to the point of bringing a soldier to his knees with a single punch; you're taking up to three shots a day. Dependency is a dangerous thing, Doll Maker; you're so desperate that you took a shipping job simply to steal some of those compounds off the shipping boats. A heavy lifting job in your mid-forties is not natural, but the compounds have pushed you through."

"I don't need a human anatomy lesson," the Doll Maker interrupted.

"Actually, you do," Sherlock combated. "You don't know the full extent of the compound; you didn't know that it would cause swelling around Natasha's wrists, which tells me a lot right there. You were a test subject rather than a developer, a victim rather than an initiator."

"Bravo, Sherlock," the dark figure mocked lightly. "You know my name and my condition. Even I must admit that that was…impressive. But is that enough for you?"

"I'm not finished," Sherlock admonished sharply, warning him not to interrupt. He took one more cursory glance up and down the man before continuing with his analysis. "You're a sea-shipping worker; your hands are rough, your nails are chipped, your skin is dark. But that wasn't your prime occupation; sea-shipping is a young man's job, but the degree to which your skin and your hands are worn are nowhere near where the lifetime worker would be at in his mid-forties. You had a previous occupation; you were an educated man. The way you dress when not wearing that uniform stinks of university level. Oh, not to mention the wrinkles along your eyes; lines directly correlated to squinting at a chalkboard rather than frowning or simple sun-damage. The fountain pen laid on your dresser is for Oxford alumni; in fact, the seal on the side of it is for the arts and sciences department.

"Now, as to your degree, simple: literature. Your usage of Latin on Clara's mother's stomach indicates your knowledge of the language; it hasn't been the most popular of courses within the last thirty years, putting the odds of you in some sort of literature curriculum greater than anything else. Your philosophy behind paralyzing the children, immortality and freedom and whatever else you choose to mumble your justifications with, follows the Roman style of literature. Not to mention your choice of fairytales; the Girl without Hands? Please, nobody remembers that. And _The Little White Bird_: only a college literature class would even bother reading that satirical work. Your clues were clever, Doll Maker, but they gave far too much away about yourself."

"Really now?" the man muttered.

"Do not interrupt," Sherlock replied sternly, scowling at the Doll Maker with great disdain. "As to why you did this, that's easy enough. Family."

"Family," the Doll Maker repeated blankly.

"Yes, family. Your dresser has photos, all of which are relatively well taken care of. They are all of relatives and family. Am I sure? Of course I am; they're all taller than the average person, and multiple members are in wheelchairs at quite a young age. Genetics, Doll Maker. Regardless, your method is to shoot the parents, the ones who raise the children you kidnap, and carry them to the sofa and place them angled towards each other; the need for order among family members is important to you. But this doesn't stem from your own parents, does it? No; if it were anger towards your parents, you would have shot their heads and killed them immediately. Instead, you shoot their abdomen and let them bleed, fully conscious and fully aware of what is happening. No, this isn't an underlying issue from your youth; this is more about personal guilt. Tell me, Parsons, what happened to Mrs. Parsons fifteen years ago? Better yet, what happened to your child?"

The Doll Maker's eyes lit up at hearing about those figures, a wild look of insecurity flashing through the cold countenance. Sherlock had finally cracked him; not that it had been too hard to do so.

"Don't look so surprised. Despite your efforts to rid of any indicators towards you having children, you can't hide from the past; you've been preaching that to the girl, now it's time for you to face it. What happened to your wife and child?"

The man remained completely silent for a few moments, rebelling Sherlock's inquiries with a dark glare before cracking a deep chuckle. He glanced down, shuffling his feet as he shifted his weight around, attempting to hide his discomfort. Looking back up at the detective, he gave a deep sigh and shook his head, loosening the grey locks. The guns remained exactly where they were, one pointed at the ceiling, the other directed at his temple. An amused light in the Doll Maker's eyes gleamed, poking fun at Sherlock's patience.

"Your silence won't save you, Doll Maker."

"You know who I am, yet you continue to refer to me as 'Doll Maker'," the man finally said. This time it was Sherlock who remained silent, his eyes reflecting the same calm hostility as his opponent. The man continued on, burrowing further into the conversing game they played. "You don't want this to be over; if this is over, you return to the same world you always live in. To admit to my identity, to claim that I lose and you win, is to end the game."

"Your game," Sherlock coolly countered, "is beginning to get boring."

"You're lying," the Doll Maker entreated, watching Sherlock with the eyes of a predator. "I see it in your eyes; you're lying to me. Just like you know all about me, I know all about you; I see it. Just like you can see my past, I can see your thoughts written all over your face. You're bored; you're always bored with the lack of complexity in the people who surround you. Stimulation and excitement, that's all you want, and I can give that to you. Why should the game end? It doesn't have to, Sherlock.

"There is not enough in the entire population of London to keep you entertained. Human beings; they act upon their most basic desires, doomed to fail; sick, desolate. They fall to temptation and greed and insolence. They are predictable to the point that either one of us could easily monopolize the entire adult world. It's one thing to destroy one's self; but to forsake that onto the purity of defenseless children and to abandon them in the same sort of grime and desolation is greater than the sin of self-mutilation. The poor souls are left drowning in the filth and smut, and there is nothing out there to save them. The only way to relieve the world is to disintegrate them all; destroy them all to the point that they cannot rise from their own termination. You know that is the only way to get it through their thick skulls: decimate them to the point that all those who dare stray from the path of morality would finally fear for their own lives.

"You and I, we are exceptionally observant people. We both see through the society we live in; we both see that people are disgustingly simple. We are far above all of them, Sherlock Holmes. You and I, together, we could save them. Destroy all the deviants: the alcoholics, the cheaters, the abusers, the whores, the gamblers, we could take them all. Not that society will accept that solution so willingly; murder does not seem to be taken so lightly in civilized natures, as it should not. Only in desperate measures should this be taken. No, there is a solution to all our problems: let me go. Let me continue my work; continue to chase me, maintain the façade that heroes exist in the world and let me do all the dirty work. I'll make it worth your while; the puzzles I leave you will be challenging, enough to make the world think that there really is no way to stop me. We continue this game of cat and mouse, all the while purging our society of sin. Together, we could change the world. And I can guarantee you, you would never get bored."

"Is that so?" Sherlock took another step towards the Doll Maker, once more threatening the man's sense of protection. The space between them was dense, the tension thickly coating the air with sick anticipation. The drizzle outside remained under the greying clouds, shadows surrounding the dark green walls of the room. A breeze continued to flow in from an open window behind the Doll Maker, swirling through the flat, papers fluttering in a mumbled muttering. The faint sound of sirens floated in, Lestrade finally getting close enough for the two to hear. Neither of the players even twitched.

Without any warning, Sherlock spoke, his voice collected and even. "You had one child, a girl, and she died young. The gold chain around your neck has something weighing it down under your jumper; a locket. The style of chain is thinner, more feminine, popularly used to hold a cross on necklaces for young girls; it is most definitely not meant to hold a bulky object, which you added of your own accord. If she had been any older than five, the chain would be thicker to accommodate her growth and age. Her death correlates with a falling out with the mother; you're sentimental enough to wear your daughter's chain but not enough to wear the wedding ring of the woman who gave birth to her. But it's not a natural falling out due to grief; if it were, even you would still be wearing the ring. Something to do with memorabilia. No, you blame her for something."

"Ha," the Doll Maker spat. "What leads you to—"

"She killed her," Sherlock broke in, a cold gleam breaking out in his eyes. He had found it; the weak spot, the source of all emotions, and he knew it. "Oh, she killed her, didn't she?"

The Doll Maker's eyes grew wide, his lips left parted in surprised anguish. The detective watched as the towering man's chest began to tremble, beginning to lose control of his placid façade. This spark of emotion in his enemy made no difference to Sherlock.

"Your daughter had the same genetic defects. Judging by the relatives in those photos, a majority of them did; no doubt your daughter was no exception. You smuggled the experimental Lancaster solution to her, thus your job as a shipping worker; it allowed you, a literary degree holder, access to the compound that was still being tested. But something happened; you didn't know the extent of that compound. Naturally, your wife wouldn't know either. She overdosed your daughter. That's how you knew that the compound could paralyze children when given your dosage; your daughter was first."

The Doll Maker's shadowy figure trembled, a reluctant tear rolling down his cheek. His breathing quickened as he tried to regain control over his heart, its beating pulsating through his forehead with an alarming pressure. There was a chuckle of doubt, followed by a rough sigh. "So you did figure it out," he muttered, cold grey eyes lifting to search through Sherlock's own. He pleaded, "But do you understand? Are you, the great Sherlock Holmes, even capable of understanding how it could have felt, how it feels, to lose the only thing you cared about? To watch it suffer and simply fall apart in your arms? No, you can't. You can't even begin to fathom the truth behind that story."

Sherlock's eyes pierced the Doll Maker, his forehead clenched at the sudden wave of emotions emanating from the madman. In his gaze, only one thing was made clear to the suffering psychopath: Sherlock felt nothing for him. Not disgust, not sympathy, not pity, just the cold blank stare of acceptance, of acknowledgement. In that moment, James Parsons realized his mistake, his eyes sinking down towards the floor momentarily in thoughts of doubt. With a cough, he returned his sight to Sherlock's loose figure and reformed his stature, standing tall with both guns still aimed at the "options" he had previously laid out for the consulting detective. With only that gesture, the nature of the game was made very clear to Sherlock; only one could live: the Doll Maker or Anna Huntington.

Sherlock's lips pursed into a serious line, his face shadowed as he took yet another step towards the man, further invading his territory. Twelve years this had gone by, and here Sherlock was, finally making the final move of the game. Checkmate.

"I have no interest in your crusade, Parsons," he murmured coolly into his ear, a snarl curling his lips, nostrils flaring deviously.

The Doll Maker flinched as he heard a heavy thud two floors below, followed by the slow singular steps of a man quietly climbing the spiral staircase outside. Dr. John Watson had finally escaped his confines. Sherlock watched as a speck of fear flew through the madman's chilling grey iris. With that, he abruptly turned away, coat flying out behind him as he strode to the door.

"Wait!" Parsons called out to Sherlock, who's dark curls bounced along his head until he stopped, paused in the doorway to hear the final plea.

"Have you already forgotten what happens if you leave that doorway?" Sherlock flipped around, now growing increasingly annoyed by the desperate psychopath behind him.

"Go ahead and shoot either gun," Sherlock snapped. "I know for a fact that the object attached to the rope holding Anna Huntington to the windowsill is not above your head; it is above mine. You attached her to the doorknob across the room; I knew it the moment I saw the angle of her body out the window. Therefore, your threat of sending her to her death is invalid; if you shoot directly above yourself, you will miss the rope and she will remain exactly where she is. You're right hand is the least of my worries.

"As for the second option you presented me with, go ahead. Shoot yourself; you are no longer of any interest to me, Parsons. I've called your bluffs; you're just another boring psychopath, so desperate to please. I've had enough of this game." Sherlock made to leave the room once and for all, until an austere click reverberated off the walls.

"There was, and still remains, a third option," James said quietly, the rustle of his jumper intonating a shift in the arms. Sherlock didn't even need to turn around to know that the gun in the man's right hand was now pointed directly at his back, the safety off and finger on the trigger.

Sherlock's hand still remained curled around his own gun, but that wouldn't be enough anymore. No matter how quickly he turned around, no matter how quickly he ducked or ran, the madman's bullet would still hit him. Fool! He should have shirked the Doll Maker of his guns before he left. An involuntary shock of electricity shot up the nerves of his spinal cord; an autonomic reaction to the adrenaline that began to race through his veins. He felt no fear in his mind, but even a sociopath couldn't control the bodily reactions of an impending murder victim; that was simple human anatomy.

He closed his eyes.


	33. Chapter 33: Falling

**Chapter 33: Falling**

"No you don't."

There was a deafening gunshot that silenced the room, followed by a rough yelp and the thud of a body falling on the hard wood. Taking advantage of the moment, Sherlock flung himself around and aimed his gun at James Parsons, who writhed on the floor with a hand clasped to his right shoulder. The madman's body jolted as the bullet shot streaks of pain through his shoulder and all throughout his side. After that initial sound, Parsons gave another scream of pain that reverberated against the dark green walls of the apartment. Brown-red fluid began to seep heavily from the wound, the wood now stained with the deep red that had so often been left on the sofas of his victims. Sherlock paused at the sight: how ironic it would be if he were to let the Doll Maker bleed to his death…

"Sherlock," John called from outside the doorway, his gun still directed at the psychopath. He was breathing heavily through parted lips, eyes still narrowed to aim. Relief flooded through his entire being; he wasn't too late. He had been able to reach the flat's floor just as the Doll Maker clicked the safety off. The army training took over immediately once he saw that his companion's back was to the assailant. Within a matter of seconds, he had leapt into the doorway and with a singular breath, aimed along the outline of Sherlock's arm to shoot the Doll Maker's right shoulder. It was a hard shot for him to make; the fear of hitting Sherlock made his breath shaky and his focus waiver slightly. There was only time for one shot, a risky one at that. But what other choice did he have? The sight of Sherlock's stiff body in that doorway, his calm face…

"Don't you _ever_ close your eyes when someone is about to shoot you," John heaved, exhaling heavily.

Sherlock strode over to the bleeding figure still lying on the floor, kicking both guns out of his way. As the black metal skid along the wood, he turned back towards John, a dangerous look in his eyes; disgust, vengeance, anger, ferocity, everything that could make Sherlock the most fearsome man in the world. His pale face in the shadowy room glowed, but his lean figure dominated the scene. A settled scowl of remained on his lips, telling John that his encounter with the madman had been less than satisfactory.

Sirens that had once only been faded distractions from a distance now screamed in the forefront of the setting. Red and blue flashing lights now accompanied the graying light of the drizzling evening. Dragging the thin curtains away from the window panes, Sherlock looked down at the crowd on the street below, watching as Lestrade hopped out of his police car to establish order among the press and bystanders. An ambulance was slowly pushing its way through the surrounding traffic.

"Took him long enough," John muttered, stepping farther into the room and kneeling by the Doll Maker. Even with the pained moans of the injured man in front of him, the doctor couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock, who searched the room with his own eyes once more as if looking for something. When his vision scanned over a black mass of cloth, he bent down and quickly ran his hands through the pockets. He blinked as he slipped something out of the inner pocket of the Doll Maker's trench coat and into his own pocket. Watson was about to comment until something hit him. He could only say a single word; a single word that summarized the whole reason they were standing in that apartment to begin with.

"Anna," he exclaimed, meeting Sherlock's gaze with anxious eyes.

"Don't let him die," Sherlock growled in return, his coat sweeping out behind him as he tucked his own gun back into his side and raced through the doorway.

John looked down at the Doll Maker and his bleeding shoulder. His grey eyes winced in extreme pain, a grimace formed along his tense jaw line and gritted teeth. Gasps of intense agony escaped from his lips. His large, muscular body was curled up on the wooden floor, just as John had been only ten minutes earlier. Blood stained everything around the man: his navy jumper, his hand, the wooden floor. Although John knew exactly the sort of damage this man could cause, the heartache and nightmares and horrors this bastard had instigated, the doctor only thought of how pathetic the Doll Maker was in the throes of physical pain. It was pathetic, almost to the point of a cruel snicker.

He slid the Doll Maker's hand away from the wound, applying his own pressure to reduce the bleeding. The soft, cruel laughter continued in his mind, until he realized that the sound was not in his head. Crinkling his forehead in a distraught manner, John watched as the Doll Maker's lips pursed tighter, the chuckling growing louder. Pressing his hands harder on the wound, the sniggers paused to wince, only to return to laughter once more.

"What are you laughing at?" John uttered with disgust, his eyes growing hard.

"You didn't think I would let Elise go so easily, do you? The compound has had plenty of time to run through her veins."

"Her name is Anna; and for your information, we have a remedy for that."

The Doll Maker only continued to laugh, his cruel voice deepening. "Oh do you now? Are you sure that's enough?"

Upstairs, a booming voice could be heard yelling her name; Sherlock was roaring, his crucial tone echoing down the staircase and all throughout the apartment building. It only encouraged the madman's sick amusement.

"You, sir, are a monster," John retorted, his voice reflecting the absolute loathing and repulsion he felt in the moment. Yes, he did have to keep the bastard alive, but what he did after Anna was pulled in from that windowsill was another story altogether.

* * *

Sherlock bounded up the spiral staircase to the floor above and ran to the closed door on his left. Instinctively, he grasped the grimy handle and gave it a single twist, to which the metal knob resisted. Of course the Doll Maker would have locked the door. But that was precisely what he had taken into consideration when he had left John with the madman. Time was of the essence; now that the Doll Maker was in custody, the only thing left was to get Huntington back. It was the last gamble of the game, and it was not one he planned on losing.

Kneeling, Sherlock analyzed the lock. _Old-fashioned, one-way. Only an equally old-fashioned key could open this…_just as he had expected as he searched James Parsons' trench coat. He pulled out the bulky key: _rectangular fit, large handle; an old-fashion key, yet recently coated in aluminum to match the vaguely renovated state of this apartment building. How pointless. _

He peered through the wide keyhole, Anna's rigid figure casting a long shadow across the room against the grey light of the damp afternoon that streamed through the open window. The white nightgown glowed, hanging loosely from her shoulders down in true 1900s fashion. Her hair was flying in the wind, the current far stronger from the height of the top floor than the street below. She herself, however, made no movement. She had become Wendy Darling, prepared to take the leap of faith with Peter Pan; to fly away to Neverland and this time, never return.

"Anna," Sherlock called, his voice booming with the acoustics of the spiral staircase. He watched as her head stirred slightly and her shoulders began to tremble more violently. "Anna; Anna!" he shouted once more, trying to gain her attention.

"SHERLOCK!" she shrieked in reply, the intonation of pain vivid in each syllable. Even with the reassurance that she was alive, Sherlock felt his pulse falter momentarily. The pitch of her voice was one that he instantly recognized, one that could never be mimicked by any actor; she was in excruciating pain. "Sherlock, I can't move," she continued shakily. "I just can't."

Eyes darting, only one other thing caught his attention: _the rope. Wrapped around her waist and strung through a space in the nightgown. Rope continues across the room to a point just above the sight of this keyhole: the doorknob. Rope is taut; there is just enough to keep her standing on the windowsill. Any movement of this door will shift the balance of her body. _

Sherlock stood up, placing the key against the hole. _Doors to enter a room swing inwards; if I open this, her body will fall out of the window. With her body and the force of gravity, the rope won't hold at the sudden transfer of weight; it will snap. I don't have time to wait for Lestrade; she won't be able to last much longer. _

His face paled at the damning realization: her life was literally hanging by a few fibers. Any misstep, any mistake, any minor miscalculation would send her crashing down.

_There is one way,_ he thought. _Risky, but…_

Forcing the key into the keyhole with a grinding shove, Sherlock twisted the bulky key and felt the bolt inside the door click to the side. He turned the doorknob until the whitewashed wooden door gave slightly; it would swing open of its own accord if he let go now, the weight of Anna's body threatening to pry it open. There was no going back now that the bolt had been undone.

He let the handle slip out of his hand.

* * *

"Get them back; make everybody move back!"

Lestrade hopped out of the police car and into the crowd that surrounded 14 Guildford Street. Russo and Donovan were already trying to impose order on the mass of bystanders and reporters, the overwhelming sound of cameras flashing away and people screaming questions and statements filling the drizzling air. As the people were being shuffled back, he finally noticed a strange coincidence: every head was turned the same direction. Their eyes were tilted upwards towards the sky, each face reflecting a variation of the same emotion: horror. Horror and disbelief.

As he followed their line of sight, he couldn't help but gape at the sight with equal horror. "Jesus Christ," he muttered at the view of a lithe body hanging out from the windowsill, the white nightgown fluttering violently from the top floor. Anna Huntington was motionless, ready to fall at any moment. His stomach dropped at the spectacle. After everything he and Sherlock and John had done to find her, her life was still in danger. And what about the Doll Maker? What about Sherlock and John? They had gone in there; they were still in that building. He had to worry about them too. Lestrade tried to tear his eyes away from the pale figure above, but he couldn't. Everything was weighing him down; it was simply too much to take in at once.

Russo and Donovan filed behind him, having finally forced the crowd back into the adjacent park with yellow police tape and secondary officers. Lestrade heard Russo murmur "Oh my God," while Sally remained silent, only her heavy breathing indicating her disturbed nature. They watched the scene in front of them reverently, until Sally gasped.

"Sir, look!" she pointed, directing their gaze to the window directly below Anna's body. For a moment, it seemed that Sherlock's dark figure watched them from above, only to disappear with a single blink. Lestrade squinted his eyes until he realized that that had not been a hallucination; that was real. Sherlock was alright, but that provided little relief to the Detective Inspector on the street below. It did, however, allow him to regain his wits.

"Alright, people" he bellowed out, directing all the officers surrounding him. "It's a raid, pure and simple. I will make this very clear: check every room until you find the Doll Maker, and take him into custody. We will consider him armed and dangerous; this bloody bastard will not hesitate to shoot, remember that. If he directs his weapon at you, fire. Do not touch anything else in that apartment building; the rest is evidence. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," a collective response chanted out. Each officer pulled out his gun and held it by their side, preparing to run. Lestrade grabbed his gun from his own holster, clicking off the safety. With a nod, two men ran to the door numbered 14; the rest of the squad steadied themselves behind them.

"On my count," Lestrade said slowly, glancing at Donovan and Russo with a fixed stare. "One…two... thr—"

"SHERLOCK!" a high pitched shriek sliced through the dense air.

"Hold it," Lestrade demanded, looking up at Anna's body, half expecting her body to come crashing down at any moment. He looked up to her motionless body. Whatever had prompted her scream, it left his heart, and the heart of every other person there, pounding with panic. They remained still, petrified by the awful cry.

Lestrade took one last consideration: if the Doll Maker was still with Anna, if he was still forcing her onto that ledge, barging in would only provoke the madman. Was that a risk he was willing to take? While part of him said no, he could not risk her life, a tiny comment filled his mind: she wouldn't let him get away. No matter what happened to her, she would never let him get away. But he wasn't Anna; he couldn't do that.

With a deep growl, he made one last command to his men. "If he threatens you with Huntington, you let him go. Do you understand me?"

"But sir," Donovan protested, "he'll get away if we do that. We've got this psychopath cornered, all we have to do—"

"Donovan."

"—is shoot him down. The girl is collateral damage. If he escapes again—"

"Do you understand me or not?" he threatened once more, louder than before. An alarming glare forced Sally to nod in consensus.

"Go!" Lestrade ordered, the door broken down and the entire squad hustling into the main room of the apartment building.

* * *

The door swung open just as Lestrade's squad burst into the building. Sherlock's mind purposely excluded the banging noise on the bottom floor of the apartment complex, focusing on more pressing matters. The moment he could see the layout of the flat, his mind made the necessary calculations; precise mathematical measurements that visualized efficiency.

Within less than a second, his strategy was complete. When just enough space appeared in the doorway for his lean figure, he slipped into the flat. Anna's body began to lean forward, unable to stop the force of gravity as the rope snapped from the doorknob. Legs bounding across the floor at frightening speed, Sherlock reached out with his left hand and snagged the rope, jerking it back with a resonant grunt.

Her body jolted upright in response, Anna gasping lightly as the rope's grip around her waist constricted her diaphragm. After a moment of floating, her frail figure was now falling backwards into the flat. She involuntarily cringed, muscles tightening painfully as she prepared to hit the wooden floor. She closed her eyes.

The sound of her damp hair striking the hard surface below was the only thing she heard connect, interrupted by a rustle of fabric. Something wrapped around her back, slowing her collapse. Another arm swooped in under the crook of her knees, lifting her legs up and evening the angle of her body. Someone had grasped her, stopped her from crashing to the ground. Opening her eyes, Anna found herself in a strangely familiar position.

Sherlock held her in his arms. She stared at him with large blue eyes, her damp hair framing her pale face. With a grave smile, her lips parted and she took a deep breath; still shaky, but a deep breath nonetheless. He recognized the five year old girl, the Elise Houlton that had forever been stored as evidence in his mind palace. But there was more now; there was the perceptive young woman who had walked into 221B Baker Street only a few weeks earlier. This wasn't sentiment; this was simply observation. The same observations told him that she needed to get to a hospital.

Around her neck was a bit of parcel string that tucked into the neckline of her nightgown. Kneeling down, Sherlock laid her legs across his knees, using a free hand to tug the thin chain out. Just as he expected, a playing card with the pink china doll slipped from under her collar, the only difference being a hole punched into the top corner to allow it to act as a necklace charm. Sherlock tore the card off and read the message for the last time: _Another Work by the Doll Maker. _

Anna saw her vision blurring, Sherlock's sharp face now fading into a dull glow against the fall afternoon. Gathering the strength the talk against the pain still streaming through her body, she could barely whisper.

"Is he…"

"John's got him," he replied coolly, watching as her eyes struggled to remain open. She would be losing consciousness soon.

"You found me."

"No," Sherlock murmured, "I rescued you." Anna chuckled at that; a reference to the first conversation they had had only a month ago.

"Sherlock, the anesthetic antidote—"

"It worked; I know."

"Yeah; But he…" she stuttered, a cold look of distress filling those blue eyes. He bowed his head over hers, listening to the strained whispers of her voice. She went silent, unable to hold on to consciousness any more.

Sherlock's eyes widened at her final statement, calculations flying through his head: the Doll Maker had taken other precautions than just his two initial options. It wasn't enough just to reclaim Anna's body… Realizing what was at stake, he leapt back onto his feet, spun around, and dashed out of the empty flat. Officers were just reaching the top of the spiral staircase, but Sherlock shoved them to the side; their looks of terror wouldn't do a thing for the girl, and he had no time to deal with their insufferable questions.

_She needs to get to St. Bart's_ was the only thought Sherlock could suffer in that moment, carrying her frail body through the building. He could care less about the evidence Forensics would undoubtedly ruin.

"I need an ambulance, now!"


	34. Chapter 34: Clear

**Chapter 34: Clear**

Lestrade watched as the paramedics shut the doors on the first ambulance, entrusting Sgt. Donovan with the task of monitoring the Doll Maker to St. Bart's. Sally was a strong woman, but even she couldn't help but feel slightly unnerved in the presence of that psychopath; disturbed enough that she kept one hand hovering over her gun's holster as the medics tended to the shot shoulder.

When the Detective Inspector had found John and the bleeding Doll Maker on the fourth floor, he was shaken; there he was, the madman who had caused this whole bloody mess, lying right in front of him, helpless and in pain. His first instinct was one of rage; to finish the matter right then and there. He could have shot the bastard; screamed at him, kicked him, beat him raw, anything that would injure him further. Lestrade was not a ruthless man by nature, but there were extreme exceptions to his tolerant disposition. This was most definitely one of them…

It was John who drew him away from that instinctive wrath, his voice reminding Lestrade that he was not the only one offended by the monster in front of him; that regardless of his personal hatred, he had to remain in control of himself. The doctor yelled at the other officers to "stop standing there and get the man to the hospital." As they lifted the large man up and began to quickly carry him down the stairs, John slowly stood up (his gut still sore from the incredible punch it had taken), met the dazed Lestrade in the doorway, and tugged at his arm.

"Lestrade," he said quietly, noticing the conflict on the Detective Inspector's face. "We need to get down there."

"Where's Anna?"

"Sherlock's got her," John huffed. "Look, his main concern was making sure the bastard he didn't get away, so let's make sure we've got that covered. He trusts us with him; we have to trust him with her." With that, Lestrade finally noticed that the army doctor was crooning in pain.

"What happened to you?" he asked, worried eyes glancing over the man.

"Doll Maker socked me, so I shot him." At the bewildered look Lestrade returned at that blatant statement, John gripped his shoulder. "Come on; I'll tell you later."

The moment they reached the street, Lestrade ordered Donovan into the ambulance with the Doll Maker and John advised those paramedics on the gun wound and blood loss. Within thirty seconds, the ambulance was on its way St. Bart's, leaving John and Lestrade only a second to themselves. Suddenly, there was a shout from the surrounding crowd: "What happened to the girl?"

That was the question on everybody's mind. John gave Lestrade a weary glance; he didn't know. He hadn't had a bloody second to think about Anna Huntington, and now that he did, he wasn't sure what to hope for. Just as he turned to look up at the ledge, a voice came through the door into 14 Guildford Street.

"I need an ambulance, now!" Sherlock commanded, officers lunging to escape his stride onto the street. Lestrade and John leapt into attention, running towards him. Paramedics from the second ambulance rushed over, dragging a narrow bed with them.

Lestrade suddenly stopped, paused in the commotion of the moment. Anna sparked his memories at last. It was just like twelve years ago: Sherlock held the frail figure, the nightgown clinging to her body and fluttering in his arms. Strands of her dark hair clumped together in the drizzling rain, sticking to her pale skin. Her eyelids trembled, opening for an instant to reveal those pale blue irises the same little girl had twelve years ago. Now he could see it; now could he see the Elise Houlton he had taken from Sherlock's grasp so long ago.

But this time was different. Sherlock did not pass her body off to another detective, eager to rid of her. As one of the male paramedics ran ahead of the cot to retrieve her body, Sherlock drove past him. Questions were being shot towards him from every angle; reporters, bystanders, paramedics, other officers trying to get details, trying to understand what was happening. But Sherlock remained reticent. With a stolid look in his eyes, he made his way to the ambulance's cot and, to the shock of John, Lestrade, and all the officers, carefully laid her down.

The medics stared at him curiously; even they had heard of the sociopathic freak consulting detective and his lack of emotions. To have witnessed his actions regarding a victim, a young girl, they were shocked into silence and stillness.

Sherlock glared at each of them menacingly. "She needs to get to St. Bart's immediately," he articulated murderously.

They began to move, slowly loading the cot up into the ambulance and slipping an oxygen mask over the victim's mouth. Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed the collar of the medic closest to him, shaking him with a violent fury. John and Lestrade raced over the detective with looks of confusion in their eyes.

"You fools!" Sherlock yelled at the medic. "I need her alive; she is evidence. If she does not get to St. Bart's in thirty minutes, she will die, so move!"

John and Lestrade grasped each one of Sherlock's wrists, forcing him to let go of the man's collar. The poor medic jumped at the demands, picking up the pace and flying to load Anna's body into the ambulance. Sherlock remained standing, still shaking with the unknown rage.

"Sherlock, what was that?" John's voice soothed as he held the man's wrist. His forehead clenched in confusion at what had just been threatened. "What do you mean she's only got thirty minutes?"

"The compound, John," Sherlock muttered with frustration. He swung his gaze at the army doctor with dark eyes, and when he got no response of understanding, he continued. "The compound! Don't you understand? The Doll Maker put the compound in her!"

"We beat the Doll Maker; we got Anna back. We've got the antidote, remember? The counter-solution: it worked for Natasha, it should work—"

"He predicted that, though. He predicted almost all of this. He injected her with the paralysis compound twice; the ATP stimulant may not be enough if we don't administer it now."

John's eyes widened in horror. "Oh god," he mumbled, releasing Sherlock's wrist. "You've got to be joking." But when Sherlock's expression didn't change, John felt his stomach drop. Lestrade's dismayed questions faded to the background as he medically predicted the time it would take for Anna's muscles to freeze with a double dose; it was a frightening estimation.

Realizing the only thing he could do, John turned away and made a mad dash to the ambulance just as they were preparing to shut the doors.

"Hang on; I'm a doctor."

* * *

"I need her on an IV drip right now. Contact the Emergency Ward at St. Bart's and tell them to have an electrical stimulator ready for us when we get there. I also need blood for a full transfusion: A positive or O. If her heart stops, be ready to defibrillate. And for Christ's sake, avoid the traffic!"

John sat in the back of the ambulance, directing the paramedics around him with military precision. The beeping of a monitored pulse filled the back of the swerving vehicle, the driver suddenly changing directions to avoid the city traffic. A lanky young man clumsily handed him a needle and IV tube, which he snatched and quickly poked into her arm. Hooking it up to a baggie of fluid, a muffled voice caught his attention.

"Dr. Watson?"

Anna's eyes were open; two pale blue irises that stared up at him from where she laid. She looked around, taking in her new environment before turning her head to the side. Her hand reached up to her mouth, grasping the oxygen mask and attempting to tug it off.

"Please, don't—"

"No," she resisted. "I don't want it." While John would normally have forced a patient to keep the mask, he reached out and pulled it off her small chin. She gave him a smile, that grave smile that John had grown so fond of. He brushed the long, dark strands of hair that were strewn over her eyes and forehead, clearing her face. The smile faded away, overtaken by a wince as the ambulance swerved once again.

"Anna," he began slowly, "we're in an ambulance going to St. Bart's. Sherlock and Lestrade are in a police car not too far behind. Everything's okay; we're going to—"

"Where's the Doll Maker?" she gasped as she remembered, eyes widening.

"We took care of him. Well, I shot him."

"Did you now?" A wane smile spread across her lips as she gave a weak laugh. "Very nice, doctor. You're a ruthless man, aren't you?"

"Not as ruthless as I should have been; he's not dead."

"Oh…but you did catch him, right?"

"Yes; yes, we caught him."

"Then we won; Sherlock figured him out. That's a relief." A coughing fit overtook her, each gasp for air followed by a grimace of pain.

"Anna, listen to me," John said wearily. "You're going to be okay. We have a counter-solution to the compound. It worked for Natasha; she's still alive. Comatose, but alive. You're going to be okay."

"Don't say that," she remarked bluntly.

"Why not?"

"Because I know I'm not. To agree to that would be lying to you." Her voice began to falter. "You don't understand, doctor; the Doll Maker, he anticipated his own losses, so he…he gave me three shots: one anesthetic, two paralyzers. It doesn't matter what you do; I don't think you can't undo this."

Even though Sherlock had already told that to him, John's heart still dropped. A single injection of the compound put Natasha into a coma even with the counter-solution. A double dose of it would be too much. That was what the Doll Maker had meant by asking if it was "enough." That was what Sherlock meant when he said the counter might not be "enough." And even though he knew that, it hurt to hear her say it so bluntly.

"No," John stammered, trying to keep his composure. "We can fix this; there has to be something we can do. Sherlock will think of something; he always does. He has to. Just hold on."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, resigning to her own fate. The blue eyes quivered, reflecting the harsh lights of the ambulance. The white nightgown, still damp from fluttering in the drizzle, hung to her small body; she seemed so hollow. Shadows formed around her clavicle and neckline; an ethereal detail to her small body. Her skin seemed so pale, as if she were indeed a character from a fairytale: Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Wendy Darling. The same thought that struck John the first time he met her came again: _she was extremely pretty, and extremely young._

They both remained silent after that, unsure of what to say. Anna took John's hand in her own, to which he responded by squeezing it lightly, reassuringly. She was only eighteen; she should have been in school, messing about with friends, having fun. Instead, she was in an ambulance, holding on to an old army doctor, cringing in extreme pain. Part of him wanted to lift her up and hold her; never let go. How was it fair? How was it fair that to catch the monster, they had to give up the girl? It burned John to see her suffering; to watch, hands tied behind his back until they reached the hospital.

The digital beeping of the monitors began to slow; Anna's pulse was decreasing. It became harder to keep her eyes open. She knew she would fall back into unconsciousness soon; it was only a matter of time. Whether or not she would wake up again, she didn't know. She simply didn't know anymore.

"It hurts."

"I know."

"John," she whispered, water starting to build along her lower lashes, "do you remember when you woke me up from that nightmare?"

"How could I forget? You pulled a gun on me."

"Yeah; sorry about that, by the way," she laughed weakly. "It's just that…I feel like this is just another nightmare; that any moment now I'll wake up and find you, just waiting, telling to me breathe. I can't breathe."

"Do you want the mask?"

"Will it make a difference?" There was nothing bitter in that statement; only the factual acceptance that John had only ever heard from Sherlock. She was so incredibly like Sherlock.

"Just a little while longer," he pleaded, feeling a lump grow in his throat. "We're almost there, I promise."

She studied John's face; a serious visage, forehead furrowed with lines of thought. His mouth kept in a tight line, and heavy blue eyes that broke the façade of strength as they watched her. He cared for her; he legitimately cared for her, and she saw that in every gesture he ever made towards her. It was a detached sort of sensitivity, one only necessary in an experienced army doctor and one that he never failed to demonstrate. He was a luxury, a warmth in life that she had rarely ever felt. She could never fully express her gratitude towards him, no matter what she said.

She lifted her hand up, cringing as her arm tightened against her will. Stroking his cheek with a trembling hand, Anna gave him that grave smile. "John, you…you and Lestrade and…Sherlock…you found me. I knew you would. It's over now; it's all over."

John held onto that hand, pressing it along his face. As brave as she tried to appear with that smile of hers, John could see it in her eyes: she was afraid. "Do me a favor and stay…"

"I'm here," he murmured.

Her eyes closed, the smile on her lips fading away. She could have simply been sleeping with how peacefully she slipped into the unconsciousness. But the machines around them began to shriek violent alarms; warnings that pierced through the ambulance with shattering dins.

"Anna…Anna, stay with me. Hang on…ANNA!" John turned to the lanky paramedic across from him and screamed something about the defibrillator. The boy jumped to turn and charge the device as John pumped her chest for CPR. Pressing his mouth against hers, he pushed air from his lungs into hers; her breath was faint, and he could barely detect her heart. Hell, the machines' sensors couldn't even detect her pulse. But that didn't change the fact that he was feeling something. She was still alive.

"Clear!" he yelled, grabbing the metal chargers from the paramedic and thrusting them on her chest. Her body gave a jolt at the powerful shock. John threw the chargers back to the boy, continuing compressions until the next charge could be administered.

The back doors of the ambulance suddenly swung open, revealing the grey entrance to the emergency ward of St. Bart's. A storm was brewing outside, gusts of heavy wind blowing around and the drizzle turning into the light patter of rain drops. Nurses and doctors swarmed towards Dr. Watson, but he refused to stop the compressions. If Anna's heart didn't start up again, there would be nothing any of them could do.

"Clear!"

Two police cars finally came screeching in behind them. As the first car swerved around, Sherlock leapt out of the still-moving vehicle and onto the street, dashing to the back of the ambulance. His dark curls blew in the growing wind, revealing a surprised face; two wide eyes watching as John pumped away at Anna's chest. The dark frown on his lips parted as he caught his breath. He could only observe; there was nothing left he could do. Sporadic rain drops landed on his face, dripping down through his hair and leaving streaks along his dark coat. He ignored them, concentrating his focus on the girl. This was the gamble he had made, and though he did not regret it, he felt something pulsing through him. Whatever it was, Sherlock remained stolid.

The same could not be said for the companion. Lestrade ran up next to Sherlock, heart beating hard with anxiety for Anna. At the sight of John's resuscitation of Anna and the screeching from the ambulance's machines, his brown eyes widened. "Jesus Christ," was the only thing he could manage to gasp before the realization hit him. He ran his hands through his greying hair, watching in horror as there was absolutely nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing. He only prayed that John could revive her.

"Clear!"

"Move out of my way!" a feminine voice cried against the murmuring of the hospital staff. John glanced up momentarily to see Molly fighting her way through a growing crowd with a syringe in her hand. She hopped into the ambulance and ferociously jabbed the needle into Anna's neck, pushing a clear solution into her veins. John looked at her quizzically until she held up her cell, showing him the message and instructions Sherlock had sent her only an hour ago. She truly was a saint, but John hardly had time to think that. As she silently stepped back out of the ambulance and stood by Sherlock, John grabbed the defibrillator yet again, hoping the counter-solution would have some effect.

"Clear!"

Donovan and Anderson ran out of St. Bart's, having heard that Anna's ambulance had arrived. They jogged up to Lestrade's side and simply stopped, stunned watching as the speed of John's compressions increased and the machines alarms only grew louder. Sally raised a hand up to her mouth, covering the shocked expression that overtook her; Anderson simply looked appalled.

"Clear!"

Another jolt of electricity bit through Anna, and John huffed heavily as he returned to the compressions. He refused to think, his mind only counting the pumps methodically. He tried once more to push air into Anna's lungs, bending over her small face and meeting her lips. He couldn't give up; he couldn't give up on this girl. She had to live, or else what was this whole thing for? It wasn't a fair game; it wasn't even a game anymore. Sherlock had won; it should have been over. John glanced at the witnesses: at Anderson, at Donovan, at Molly, Lestrade, Sherlock. Tears were streaming out of Molly's large eyes; Lestrade's face had gone completely white. Sherlock stood stiff, pale eyes empty. They stood through the falling rain, waiting, all for the life of one girl.

"Clear!"

* * *

Silence.

The machines finally stopped their wretched alarms, leaving the air numb. Sounds of the city seemed muffled behind this sudden tranquility. Rain pattered against the ambulance and the cars. But there was silence.

Dr. Watson stepped out of the ambulance, looking at Lestrade and Sherlock with a stolid countenance. Hardly a glance was given to the rest of the drenched crowd; they didn't know what the three of them had just gone through, and even if they did, he hardly cared if they heard what he had to say. He seemed detached, as if the girl in the ambulance had been just another patient. His eyes faded against the weary face, his mouth closed as if thinking upon a memory. There was no tremor in his hand, no shaky breath, no rapidly blinking eyes.

Only silence.

* * *

"She's dead."

**Continuing July 10****th**


	35. Chapter 35: The Bloody Truth

**Chapter 35: The Bloody Truth**

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"God will do nothing regardless—"

"Sherlock!" John and Lestrade hollered simultaneously from the public seating area.

"I do," Sherlock muttered to the prosecuting barrister, Mr. Crown, who glared at him contemptuously. Everyone on Scotland Yard's legal team was familiar with Sherlock's insubordination in court and tried to avoid using his testimony when at all possible. But for this case…

"Sherlock Holmes," Judge Bryant began from the Honor's seat. "We have already heard from Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Dr. John Watson. Your testimony is the last statement the court will accept from witnesses before we hear from the defendant and adjourn to make a decision on this case. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied coldly, surveying the court room once more. From the witness stand, he could see the layout of the people quite easily. There was little to take notice of; the court room was empty outside of the key players. The lawyers sat in their prospective positions and the jury sat along the side. The public seating area was empty, outside of John and Lestrade; the media had been denied inside coverage of this case, probably due to Mycroft's influence. But in this cold, wooded room, there was only one person Sherlock was even remotely interested in.

James Parsons sat in the defendant's chair, dressed in the same navy jumper and dark pants he wore only two days ago. Sherlock could tell that his shoulder was still in pain; the muscle in his right neck was tenser than the left. Only two days had passed since his capture, but the court pursued the case almost immediately, again probably due to Mycroft's influence. As he sat in the witness stand, Sherlock observed Parsons detached glare; separated from the moment, but watching his every move. Sherlock returned with his own blank glower.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Crown regarded momentarily. "Detective Inspector Lestrade's testimony has delineated James Parsons' actions under the guise of the Doll Maker over the past twelve years, including all the evidence left behind at each crime scene. Dr. John Watson's medical deposition has provided scientific evidence as to how Mr. Parsons was able to petrify each of children he kidnapped. I have asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes here today to give his account of what occurred at 14 Guildford Street two days ago, when the defendant was finally detained.

"Mr. Holmes," he continued, "James Parsons is accused of fourteen counts of kidnapping and forty-one counts of murder. Do you have any objections to those charges?"

"No."

"Were you at 14 Guildford Street when Mr. Parsons was apprehended?"

"As you seem to have already established that as a fact, it appears that I was," Sherlock replied with obvious boredom. He fixed his stare at the meek Mr. Crown. He was a mousy man; a cuckolded husband, too weak to face his cheating wife, who hid behind the law books and case files to escape from the alcoholic father but didn't believe in justice enough to follow financial laws himself. A pathetic man, obviously too stupid to even be working in a court of law.

"And how did you know Mr. Parsons would be there?"

"The Doll Maker left his calling cards at my flat hinting at the location of the past three kidnapped children. It was a game; he wanted me to find them. Those cards, plus a bloody map—"

"Mr. Holmes!" Judge Bryant barked. "I will not condone cursing in my court room."

"If you had listened to Lestrade's testimony," Sherlock retorted in turn, "you know that the map I am referring to was indeed detailed in blood. Adjectival-usage."

"And whose blood was that?" Mr. Crown pushed.

"Anna Huntington, the fourteenth child to be kidnapped."

"The same girl who was hanging out of the window of 14 Guildford Street when you arrived with Dr. John Watson?"

"Yes."

"So when you entered 14 Guildford Street, your intention was to retrieve her, correct?"

"Leading the witness," Sherlock rebuked with an eye roll, to which Crown clenched his forehead. "What you ought to ask—"

"Mr. Holmes!" Judge Bryant barked once again.

"—is why I entered the building to begin with. And the answer to that question was to detain the Doll Maker. Retrieving the girl was secondary."

"And what happened when you and Dr. Watson—"

"Entered the building?" Sherlock completed the question mockingly. "You're a bloody terrible barrister; you choose to lead your witnesses when, in all actuality, you're asking all the wrong questions."

"MR. HOLMES!" the judge banged his gavel down. "I have already asked you once not to curse in my court."

"No; you asked me not to use descriptive words that imply—"

"Mr. Holmes," Mr. Crown interrupted, trying to end the tension between the judge and his witness. "Will you please just give us an account of what happened?"

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. "Once we entered the building, John and I split up to cover more of the apartment. The Doll Maker separated us by incapacitating John and locking him in a room below. I chased him to an apartment three floors above, where he proceeded with an ultimatum: he either shoots Huntington off the ledge or he kills himself. Once I proved both options to be false he aimed the gun at me, at which point John stopped by and shot him down. While Dr. Watson tended to the bullet wound of Mr. Parsons, I retrieved Huntington from the ledge on the floor above."

"Did you converse with Mr. Parsons at all during your encounter?" Crown asked.

"Of course I did."

"And what were you been able to conclude?"

Sherlock stared directly at the Mr. Crown. "The answer you want to hear is that James Parsons is insane and needs to be committed to a mental institution for the remainder of his life. I can assure you, he is a psychopathic genius. However, no institutional attention will be necessary."

John and Lestrade watched Sherlock with confusion: the man was insane, of course he needed to be thrown into an asylum and never let out. Mr. Crown, too, looked puzzled as he asked "and why is that?"

"Because there is nothing to treat in Mr. Parsons' thinking. His insanity is not of a biological origin; it is of choice. The murders, the kidnappings; they were all done in the name of a belief, not of psychological impulse. There are no therapies to correct a belief in a man like this. Once he started, he could never stop. I said it twelve years ago: if we didn't catch him then, he would return. I was right, so if I were you I would listen to me when I say this: James Parsons must never be released."

"Very well," Crown sighed. "And what happened to Anna Hunt—"

"Do not waste my time," Sherlock snapped. "We all already know what happened to the girl. Do not make me repeat it."

"Alright then," the prosecuting barrister stuttered, intimidated by the threat in Sherlock's voice. "That will be all."

"Mr. Holmes," Judge Bryant called out imperatively as Sherlock stepped down from the stand and made his way across the floor. Sherlock stopped, sensing a strained nature in the judge's deep voice behind him. Turning his head slightly, he waited for the obvious question.

"Do you know why he did all of this?"

Sherlock stared at the judge; finally, someone was asking the right question. Irrelevant now that the Doll Maker had been captured, but certainly more appropriate than Mr. Crown's questions. "Of course I do; family matters."

"What do you mean?"

"Wife killed daughter, husband killed wife; psychological trauma induces psychopathic traits."

There were shocked murmurs from the jury. John shook his head; of course Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist announcing it like that. Mr. Crown shot an aggravated look at Lestrade, who only held up his hands defensively.

"Order in the court!" Judge Bryant called, before returning his focus to the witness with irritation. "Mr. Holmes, would you care to elaborate?"

Sherlock's gaze returned to James Parsons, whose eyes were softly gazing back. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

* * *

"You want to know why?"

James Parsons sat in the stand, a hand still over his throbbing right shoulder. His silvering hair, now brushed back, revealed a creased forehead. Worn lines sagged along his jaw, his aged skin making him seem even more sallow. His grey eyes were dull, focusing on something farther away as they receded through his memories.

From the public seating area with John and Lestrade, Sherlock scrutinized his every feature, waiting impatiently to hear what he already knew the gist of. The Doll Maker's dramatics was irritatingly unnecessary; if it had been up to him, Sherlock would have already forced it out of him. He stirred to say something to the court, but John's hand gripped his wrist; the doctor's way of saying _I'm not going to bail you out this time._ So Sherlock remained seated, observations pulsing through his brain.

"You want to know why I did what I did," Parsons repeated, his fading voice pale like his visage. He gave a breathy chuckle. "It would be much easier to pass me off as a psychopath and be done with it, but so be it.

"Life is a series of events. I'm sure Sherlock over there could testify to that; there is nothing that does not start from something. What that something is, well, let me put it like this: people spend their entire lives searching for origin points, the moment where things went wrong. But the only reason people even need to waste time searching is because they lack self-awareness; normal people lack self-awareness. I don't.

"There was nothing wrong with the way I was brought up, so don't even bother trying to psychoanalyze my childhood. My father was a store-clerk; my mother was a school teacher. Regular people living regular lives. Regularity is a funny thing, isn't it? How easily a person can get so caught up with the mundane, with the routine, simply because it is comfortable. Look at—"

"Irrelevant," Mr. Crown broke in.

"It is all relevant to the topic," Parsons articulated carefully in rebellion. "When I went to uni, I said what every young man said: I will not fall into that trap of the monotony. Of course, a literary degree focused on cultural and societal writings isn't exactly the most…exotic of studies. Old fashioned fairy-tales and satires; I liked it, but, well, life would get tedious fairly quickly, and I accepted that.

"So when I met Natalie, I was compelled to her. Smart girl; the kind of woman who pursues anything simply because she can. Curious too; there was nothing she was not willing to try. She worked well for a man like me, always pushing my limits, always making me see things differently. When I married her, I married her excitement, her spontaneity.

"We had a little girl: Kara. God, she was the most beautiful thing in the world. It always sounds ridiculous when other parents say that, but it's true; nothing is more beautiful than your own living, breathing child. She was all Natalie, but she had my eyes. My eyes; my father had my eyes. His were shallow, cold, the eyes of the alpha-male, but hers; I found life in hers. Energy, hope, happiness; there was light. And her smile…" he gave a reluctant sigh, "she was my daughter; my little girl, my doll, my everything.

"Kara was two when we realized she had the same condition as me. But it was worse in her. She couldn't walk; she couldn't even crawl. Her muscles weren't developing properly, and the doctors told us there was nothing they could do for her. All we could do was watch her body disintegrate. But I couldn't do that; as her father, I refused to do that. So I stole the compound from Lancaster. It worked, in low doses. I took her size in consideration; she was getting less than a milligram a day. It was wrong, but can you imagine? I had the ability to change her life, to give her a chance at normalcy. I was desperate. What else was I supposed to do? What other option did I have? There was nothing wrong with her or the compound. It just worked. By the time she was five, she could walk; she could run. She was happy; we were happy.

"But her mother... I knew when I married Natalie that she had gone through an 'adolescence phase' of experimental drugs; told me she was clean ever since. But people don't change, do they? No, they don't. When she was laid off, things were different for us. We started fighting over trivial things; she started to hate her life, so she sought out another. It started innocently enough; out with friends more often, out with their vices. Drugs to keep the boredom away, that's how I saw it. I didn't care what she did as long as she didn't bring it home. I did what I always did; I accepted the matter, turned a blind eye to it. That's what society allows for: ignorance is bliss, is it not?

"While I was working to keep that supply of compound for me and Kara coming, she was supposed to be watching her. I told Natalie never to give her straight from my dosage; one vial would be too much for her. But one day—one day she wasn't paying attention. She was distracted; cocaine or heroin. Does it matter anymore? She, she—"A tear rolled down the Doll Maker's cheek, his voice choking slightly. He shook his head, trying to continue. "By the time I got home, it was... Kara was—well, you know what happened to her."

He went utterly silent, before making one last appeal in the dark court room. "Now do you understand? There is no such thing as a 'good person'. There are two types of people: those who do evil, and those who accept that. We all deserve the same thing: to suffer. That's the beautiful thing about shooting the abdomen; they bleed slowly, fully aware of impending death. It's glorious.

"Natalie was easy to rid of; nobody questions the death of a drug addict. Nobody thinks to test for arsenic poisoning for what appears to be heroin overdose. But that didn't change anything…she killed my daughter, my _innocent_ daughter. I couldn't save Kara; I couldn't undo what had been done. This is just as much my fault as it was my wife's. I had trusted Natalie with her life, and she failed; I failed...children deserve better than this, the acceptance of filth and desecration of society. They shouldn't have to suffer for _our_ mistakes."

Parsons looked up, contemplating Sherlock with desolation. His voice was hoarse as he made his final statement. "Is that not justification for my beliefs? For my actions?"

Silence filled the court room.

Mr. Crown shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Judge Bryant silently laid down his gavel and held his forehead in his hand, rubbing a temple with his thumb. Two of the women in the jury wiped away the tears that had rolled down their cheeks, while all the men found themselves suddenly withdrawn in personal epiphanies, whether or not they had children. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, thinking of Caroline. John stared at the man on the stand with solemn disbelief, his mouth gaping as his eyes searched the Doll Maker's body language for any sort of fabrication in that story. He found none. In the silence, everybody found themselves reflecting upon their lives; everybody except for one.

Sherlock tapped his fingers along his thigh. There wasn't anything he hadn't expected. John watched as he stared at the pathetic, sagging figure in the witness stand. To him, Sherlock remained cold, devoid of any emotion whatsoever. There was no pity, and John began to wonder if his friend had known the entire story even before James Parsons had begun to speak. That seemed to be the only way he could be so impassive. As much as John despised the Doll Maker, even he couldn't help but feel somewhat shaken after hearing that story.

The silence sank in, chilling and suffocating. Everybody battled with the disgust, the pity, the anger, the sadness, the emotions that plagued ordinary human beings. But in the end, only two people mattered. Sherlock and the Doll Maker watched each other with the same knowledge: it was over. The game was done. Only one thing remained.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…"

**[A/N: Thank you for reading this far into the story. I know I have a terrible habit of leaving off on cliff-hangers, but bear with me for just a little bit longer. There are a few more loose ends to cover.]**

**It all ends July 14****th****. **


	36. Chapter 36: Sentiment

**Chapter 36: Sentiment**

"Due to the circumstances behind our gathering, it is within my obligations as a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard to attend this, um—"

Lestrade took one last look at his flashcards, eyes hollowly tracing the scrawled bullet points he had written; or rather, what the Board of Directors had written for him as part of protocol. A cool breeze rushed around as he stood at the podium, facing the audience that sat patiently in the white lawn chairs that were laid before him. It was a beautiful, early fall afternoon; the sun's warm rays seeped through the branches of the tall trees that surrounded the open field. Leaves fluttered across the grass, tumbling in the light gusts of wind. A coat was all that needed that day, though; a notice of the coming winter mixed with the reminder of the fading summer. But the coats were all black, a solemn reminder of what they were all there for.

John and Sherlock sat in the back row of the audience, purposely as far away from the weeping foster parents as they could be. It was a small congregation of mentors and school mates that sat in front of them, each bearing a white flower in their hands. Neither John nor Sherlock had any reason to associate with those strangers, so they chose to remain isolated; bystanders to a loss that no one else there could fathom the truth extent of.

That was because nobody else knew the entire truth. Nobody knew who Elise Houlton was, or of her existence twelve years ago. Nobody knew about the constant threat she lived under, or the fear of being found that she had suffered throughout her entire childhood. And nobody would ever know about the time she spent with Sherlock and John and Lestrade as they sought answers to the musings of a psychopath. All they knew was that Anna was interning at the Scotland Yard one day and dangling out of the Doll Maker's window the next. They knew nothing about what happened in-between. Perhaps it was better that way.

The mourners watched as Lestrade ran a hand through his hair with a deep, melancholy sigh. From where he stood, he could see into the open casket.

Anna Huntington's body lay on the smooth satin, surrounded by clusters of white flowers. She looked almost no different than when she had been found; the paralysis compound had preserved her body in its youthful beauty. A simple black dress hung along her neckline, revealing the ethereal neckline and collarbone, and settled along her thin figure. Her long dark hair was spread all around her pillow, framing her pale face much like Millais's painting of Ophelia in the river. Long eyelashes feathered along her closed eyelids, and her lips parted slightly. A doll; she looked like a sleeping doll. But even in her peaceful state, Lestrade could see the intensity that she had always given him; that defiance, that acuity. To him, it would forever be in her features.

A frown settled on his face. It was decorum for a Detective Inspector to speak at funerals for officers and detectives, but never had it been considered for a trainee. Then again, trainees usually weren't kidnapped; trainees usually didn't die. The Board of Directors had initially settled upon sending a teacher from the Academy to speak on their behalf, but Lestrade intervened. If anyone was going to speak for _her_, it would be him. Now that he was on the podium, though, it was harder to say the words he had though would atone for things. Much harder. The cards were thrust into the wind.

"Look," he began again, his voice this time much more commanding. "I've done this before. I've had officers die in the line of duty. I've had to speak at their funerals and tell their loved ones that they died fighting for what they believed in. They died to preserve justice, to maintain order, to protect those around them, and things like that. Some people believe that that is the most honorable death of all. But to me, a death is a death; it never glorifies itself.

"Anna Huntington was the most brilliant young woman I have ever met. Anyone who has ever known her could have seen that. She had a spirit and a strength that I have rarely felt in any intern at Scotland Yard. She was a fighter; never let me push her to the sidelines. I remember she said to me 'don't you dare think my age gives you or any other person the right to bully me into taking the sidelines.' There was a look in her eyes when she said that, one that I will never forget.

"She was absolutely incredible; nothing ever threw her off. Just talking to her, you could see how quickly she comprehended everything. She was observant, focused, dedicated; everything you need to be a detective. In my mind, she would have been the greatest asset to the Scotland Yard. I mean, she could outsmart at least half my sergeants any day, and she was only eighteen."

Lestrade's voice shook as he said that. "She was only eighteen, for Christ's sake." He paused, trying to figure out how to proceed. There was only so much he was allowed to say. Gazing into the audience before him, Lestrade found Sherlock and John in the back. Sherlock didn't seem to be listening, lost in his own thoughts as he observed the casket. John nodded reassuringly.

"We all know how she died," Lestrade continued, "but few know the full circumstances that surround her death. I won't tell you anything specific, as the Huntingtons have asked for privacy concerning that matter and they certainly deserve that. This is a terrible loss for them. But it is also a terrible loss for everyone here, so I will tell you this:

"Anna Huntington gave herself up to the Doll Maker as part of her investigation of the case. It is because of her efforts that he is done. I know this is vague, but it is important that you know that. It is important that you know this girl, with absolutely everything to lose, sacrificed her own life so we could beat the bloody bastard. She was not a victim; she was not the helpless child that everyone believed her to be. Gambling is a harsh way of putting it, but that's what she wanted us to do; gamble her to end twelve years of fear. And we did; we won. But Anna's life was the price we paid to catch the Doll Maker."

Lestrade's dark eyes became hollow. The lines on his face were of infinitely distraught with sorrow, pain. He took one last look down at Anna's body as he murmured something that was barely audible to anyone. Anyone except Sherlock and John in the back row; they knew what he was saying.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He stepped down from the pedestal, replaced by a grave priest who began the final prayers.

* * *

"Well," John sighed as he stood up from the white lawn chair.

He looked down at Sherlock, whose gaze remained solely on the coffin. It hadn't been diverted anywhere else during the service. In his usual dark navy coat and scarf, he fit the gloom of the occasion, but that was the extent of it. There were no expressed grievances or restrained sobs. To a passerby, he looked cold; to a friend, he looked blank. There seemed to be nothing in those pale eyes of his: not anger, not grief, not pain, just the uncompromising focus of…Sherlock. John knew the man had no last sentiments to give to the girl's body, so he simply muttered, "Give me a minute, will you?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied, obviously still withdrawn in his own thoughts. He listened as John's heavy footsteps brushed through the grass, no doubt towards Lestrade and the coffin; the coffin containing the body of Anna Huntington. Sherlock was aware of John's emotions, even if he didn't understand them.

The army doctor had held up fairly well after that day in the ambulance. Once Anna's heart had stopped, once the machines' shrieking alarms had flat-lined and fallen silent, Dr. Watson quietly announced the time of death to the crowd that had formed outside St. Bart's emergency ward with the detachment of a medical man. While everyone else had been shocked into stillness, he stepped out of the ambulance with heavy solemnity and simply walked away. But what everyone else saw was not what Sherlock observed. When the paramedics, under Molly's tearful direction, began to roll the body towards the mortuary, Sherlock wandered into the ward and found the examination room farthest away from the main hall. Opening the door to the dark room, Sherlock allowed the light from the hallway to illuminate the space.

John was exactly where he had expected him to be, but not in the state he had predicted. Chairs had been flipped over, and the spare table had been thrown on its side. There was a new scratch along the lower edge of the wall, formed a by dent that most likely came from a sudden, heavy kick. Sherlock could deduce a hundred things about the room and its patients of the day within seconds, but the destruction was unfathomable. Along the wall closest to the door was John's shadowy figure; his forearm was raised against the faded white paint so he could lean his head against it. His eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy, tense with the aftershock of the violent storm of anger. And although Sherlock couldn't really sympathize with the sudden angst, he remained in the doorway. He knew for Dr. John Watson, that was enough.

But Sherlock's thoughts were distracted. Another set of footsteps, with a stick dragging behind, were moving towards him; a looser sound along the grass, but a familiar pattern nonetheless. After all, who else would carry an umbrella on a cloudless day?

"Paying your respects to the dead, Sherlock?"

"As you seem to be, Mycroft."

Mycroft settled himself in John's seat. He was in impeccable order, as always; his dark suit neatly pressed under the black wool coat, his hair combed back so not a strand lifted out of place. The lines along his face were somber in his usual cool, collected way. As the rest of the funeral procession made their way up to pay their final respects to Anna, they remained seated in the back, both eyes resting on the dark coffin rather than on each other. It was fitting for Mycroft Holmes. His only relation to the girl was watching from afar; he would say his farewell from afar.

"It really is a pity. She had potential."

"I doubt she would have taken your offer," Sherlock remarked, never turning to face his brother.

"Why is that?" Mycroft asked evenly.

"Sentiment."

"Sentiment?"

"Yes, sentiment. Making becoming an agent would mean leaving behind too much. Lestrade was going to offer her a position as a detective at Scotland Yard; he would never let her go after this case. And John's presence alone would have been enough to keep her in London. He's always had feelings for her, and it was quite obvious; I wouldn't be surprised if she was starting to feel the same."

"And what about you?" Mycroft turned to face Sherlock, studying his brother's blank visage. "What 'sentimental' reason did you give her?"

"I gave purpose to her life." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the dramatic statement, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes before elaborating. "I was the only person who took her desire for revenge seriously. I was the only person who could help her. Therefore, she trusted me. Trust seems to be a catalyst for emotions; I'm not going to pretend I understand it."

The two of them watched as John and Lestrade stood over the coffin. Lestrade's head hung over his black jacket, his face angled away from their view. But neither of them needed to see his face to know he was hurting. John placed a hand on his slouched shoulder, saying something that couldn't be heard from that distance; words of comfort, words of support, words that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft could ever offer. Mycroft thought back to the time the situation was reversed, when it was Lestrade's hand on John's shoulder.

"The last time they were here, Sherlock, was for your funeral."

"I wasn't dead. She is."

"You aren't regretting this, are you?"

Sherlock gave no reply.

"You can't save everyone."

"I had her!" Sherlock snapped quietly. "I won! I had her in my arms; the counter-solution was there. I did everything perfectly; it's not my fault Parsons changed his procedure, his—"

"It was her or the Doll Maker; you knew that the entire time," Mycroft said coolly. "You took that risk and you won. Leave it at that."

"She should be alive!"

"I know."

Silence split between the two. The breeze brushed between them, making Sherlock's curls waiver along his forehead. Again, Mycroft glanced at John and Lestrade, still holding a hushed conversation of their own.

"Look at them," Mycroft said. There was no sarcasm in his voice, only the intonation of scientific observation. "They believe they can help people. A doctor and a police detective; they devote their lives to others around them. In their world, there is no one who cannot be saved. But look what happens when you accept that belief; you end up watching those you swore to protect perish. It is heart-wrenching to have that belief destroyed, so they act solely to elude mortality as a consequence. We cannot afford to be like that, brother."

"What makes us any different?"

"We are the people that must make the difficult decisions when people like them cannot. It is a role we must accept, or else what happens to civilization and society? To logic and reason? Sacrifices must be made; ignore that fact and everything that you have sworn to maintain is jeopardized. You know that, Sherlock. Anna Huntington knew that. Caring does nothing in the end."

Sherlock stood up, tiring of the conversation at hand. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from the British government. But Mycroft was not done.

"I know you were growing fond of her," he remarked.

Sherlock strode away, leaving Mycroft in the empty field of white lawn chairs.


	37. Chapter 37: It's All Over

**[A/N: Please read "Sentiment" (the chapter before this) before reading any further. I published two chapters at once today, and I think it's really important to understand the argument Mycroft makes to Sherlock at the funeral. Sorry about the confusion!]**

* * *

**Chapter 37: It's All Over**

…_by the time we reached Anna, it was too late. She had been injected with the paralysis compound twice; the antidote Sherlock had created wasn't enough for a double dose. Her heart stopped in the ambulance, and I wasn't able to revive her. To be quite honest, the fact that she remained alive until Sherlock and I got to her was a miracle within itself. But miracles don't always make up for the harsh reality: Anna Huntington is dead. _

_The Doll Maker, James Parsons, was sentenced to life in prison with no parole, no chances at getting out. The jury deemed him guilty on all fourteen counts of kidnapping and forty-one counts of murder. Not that this verdict was a surprise to anyone; the man admitted to everything when Sherlock confronted him in 14 Guildford Street. All the evidence pointed to him. DI Lestrade, Sherlock, and I were asked to testify against him. Sherlock's testimony alone was enough to convict him; I'm sure the prosecuting barrister just used me and Lestrade for good measure. So after twelve years, the Doll Maker's reign is finally over for good. I can promise you he will never return. _

_Natasha Bolstead has woken up since we reclaimed her from the Kensington Gardens. Considering she was comatose for five days, she is in good health. I personally conducted her initial checkup, and her body is responding positively to the regulatory medication. In short, Natasha is, physically, going to be just fine. Psychologically, we won't know for quite some time. Since she has regained consciousness, she has been unable to remember her time with the Doll Maker; no doubt this amnesia is a response to the traumatic nature of her kidnapping. After all, she did witness both her parents getting shot. Perhaps it is better that she does not remember, at least for the time being. Child Services are currently trying to find her a new guardian; that, coupled with her health, is enough to worry about. One day, though, she will be forced to face those memories; and I can only pray that someone will be there for her when she does. _

_Anna's funeral was this afternoon. I know under the given circumstances it was our obligation to attend: me, Lestrade, and Sherlock. But that's not why we were there; she was our friend. And as our friend, all three of us needed to say goodbye. _

_I know many of you reading this have only seen her dangling out of that window; that seems to be the only footage the media wants to show when it comes to discussing the Doll Maker. All you know is that she was the victim in a terrible case. But that's not what she should be remembered for; she deserves a lot more than that. So as I finish this blog post, I need you to understand something: she was not just "Another Work by the Doll Maker." She was much more than that. _

_We won the game. The Doll Maker Case can finally be closed. –JW _

* * *

With a click of his mouse, John shut his laptop and leaned back in his chair. He let out a deep sigh before taking a sip of tea.

"Finished already?" Sherlock muttered from his microscope in the kitchen.

"Yeah," Watson replied wearily, removing his gaze from his desk and laptop for the first time since he had gotten back from the funeral. He was about to say something else when Sherlock's phone vibrated. By the way his friend snatched it up from the kitchen counter, John knew nothing he said afterwards would be even remotely processed. With another sigh, he settled on silence.

After the past few days of running around and chasing clues, it was strange to be back in 221B Baker Street during daylight hours. The fading afternoon streamed through the windows and filled the flat with a golden light, illuminating the space with warmth. In the light, pinpricks of dust could be seen floating through the air, which was really no surprise considering the state of the sitting room. Organized chaos, as Sherlock described it. Well, to John it was simply chaos, but he was in no mood to clean up. Books were still strewn across the tea table, dirty mugs and cups still lying on every flat surface imaginable. Sherlock's violin sat on his armchair, the caked rosin collecting bits of dust on the strings.

The kitchen was no better; chemical bottles littered the countertops by the sink. When John had checked the fridge earlier in the day, there were four eyeballs (all with different colored irises), vials of coagulating blood, a new set of thumbs, and a singular toe. Oh, and a tongue; how could he forget the disgusting, slimy tongue that had been set right next to the milk? He couldn't. Equipment covered the kitchen table, rendering it unusable for things that ordinary people did, like eating. But in all honesty, John didn't really feel like eating after seeing that tongue…

"A new record," Sherlock voice vaguely broke in, never parting his eyes from his phone. His thumb was quickly scrolling along the screen, occasionally tapping down to see something.

"Pardon?" John asked, forehead clenching in confusion. If it was about a new case, he still had no idea…

"Three hours; that's your new record for a full case write up."

"Hang on," John paused for a sip of tea before grasping the context, "are you reading my blog from your phone?"

"Yes, John. My phone notified me only moments ago that you published a new blog-post."

"You can do that?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied with a hint of sardonic mockery. "You can do that through a smartphone; do adjust to today's technology, please."

There was a pause as Sherlock continued reading the blog and John silently sipped his tea. When he looked into the kitchen, he was greeted with a familiar sight. Sherlock sat on his usual stool wearing the dark navy button-down he seemed to own ten or fifteen of. There was his familiar face; his lips were pursed in the usual look of steady determination, and his eyes were focused on the screen in his pale hands. No matter how many times John saw Sherlock there, he couldn't help but feel a bit of comfort; he was there, and he would always be there. Suddenly, John snickered.

"What?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, unable to focus solely on the words knowing that his flat mate was laughing at him.

John grinned. "You subscribed to a blog about yourself…it doesn't get any more narcissistic than that, does it?" When Sherlock rolled his eyes, John simply shook his head and continued chuckling.

Sherlock groaned. "Of course I subscribed," he answered somewhat defensively. "What you publish on the internet about me is accessible to all my enemies—"

"Including Mycroft," John sarcastically.

"—including Mycroft. Better to know how they perceive my life so I know how to react efficiently. Besides, it's not a blog about _me_; it's a blog about _us_."

"It's a blog about how you solve cases, Sherlock."

"As seen by your eyes," Sherlock countered.

"Like my opinions count."

"Your opinions count a great deal to me." Sherlock tore his eyes away from his phone's screen to look at John. It was the first time in a while that he had heard John's laugh, and it was a welcomed sound. He had missed it. For one moment, they had been able to return to how life was before the Doll Maker Case, before Anna Huntington had walked into their flat. Sherlock relished it.

"So," John pushed himself out of his chair. "What did you think?"

"About the blog?" Sherlock squinted.

"No, about your tea—yes, about the blog! What did you think?"

"Short syntax matching the style of a doctor, the use of simple adjectives for grotesque crime scenes probably from army experience, little use of personal opinion removes objectivity but can be seen through descriptions of—"

"You know what I meant, Sherlock."

"There is nothing in here about Elise Houlton."

"Well," John sighed, "you heard Lestrade earlier today; the Huntingtons don't want that information made public. I have to respect those wishes."

"Oh hardly," Sherlock rebutted with irritation. "They were her foster parents; like they could do anything to stop you from publishing the truth of the matter."

"You're probably right," John agreed. "But like Lestrade also said, they deserve their privacy."

"Really, you value privacy over the truth?" Sherlock snorted. "Funny coming from my personal blogger…fine, so be it. However, it appears you also left out Parsons' testimony from court; the bit about his family."

John's face fell. Sherlock watched as his eyes shifted, searching for the answer somewhere on the sitting room floor in front of him. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it. Sherlock just waited patiently.

"I," John finally started carefully. "I just couldn't put that in."

"Why not?" Sherlock pressed.

"Because people don't need to know about that."

Sherlock cocked his head quizzically, not understanding John's reasoning. John continued quietly. "Look, what the Doll Maker did was unforgiveable; we all know that. But what happened to James Parsons…people just don't need to know that; they don't want to know that. It contradicts too much. Sherlock, I know you're good at categorizing things and separating logic from emotion, but the rest of us aren't. Right now, the world wants to hate the Doll Maker. They don't need to have sympathy for the man behind it, because to have sympathy…well, to understand the pain he was suffering underneath his madness, people just don't want that. It defeats the purpose of hating him for what he did."

With that, John turned away from Sherlock and towards the fireplace. The large cork board was still perched on the mantle, the colored string tangled across the maps. There it was, all the Doll Maker's destruction, diagrammed with scientific precision. The murders, the kidnappings, the staged bodies coded neatly with colored tacks. But there was more to this than just the hard facts, the dates and the places. As John walked over and plucked a picture off the board, Sherlock already knew what he was thinking about.

After Sherlock had found John in the wrecked examination room, neither one of them had spoken about Anna Huntington. It wasn't a topic either one of them had wanted to breach, one because he had inadvertently caused the death, the other because he couldn't stop it. In reality, there really wasn't a way to avoid talking about it anymore, but neither of them knew where to start.

"John," Sherlock said, but John wouldn't face him. "I accept full responsibility for her death. You and Lestrade, you were—"

"Don't," John broke in. He twisted his head around slightly, as if to turn to face Sherlock, but he stopped himself. "You don't—"

"Yes I do, John. I made a—"

"Don't say it."

"I have to; it was my—"

"No. You did what you had to do. So—"

"Go ahead and blame me—"

"Shut up."

"John, I'm—"

"Just stop."

John finally faced him. As Sherlock looked at John, he could see the emotions that plagued him. His pale eyes were sad; even as he gave that 'I'm okay' smile, Sherlock could see that underneath it all John was still hurt. As he made to say something, John held his hand up.

"Please don't. You did what you had to do, Sherlock. You did everything Lestrade and I couldn't." John's voice was relaxed, as if this was comfortable logic. "There's nothing to apologize for. You caught the Doll Maker; that's all she would have wanted. I just wish there had been another way, you know? That's all; I don't blame you for what happened to Anna.

"I just need you to understand something." John paused, his eyes wandering as he tried to phrase his ideas. He held a hand up in front of him as his mouth open, as if about to make a point, but he stopped, turning away instead. With a huff, he looked at Sherlock with tired eyes. There was no anger, only a desperate plea.

"You can't keep gambling people's lives away. It's not the first time you've done this: there was Soo Lin, killed by her brother when we were investigating the Black Lotus; there was the old woman who was detonated when she tried to tell you about Moriarty; you took Henry Knight into the middle of a field where he was almost eaten by the hound he was terrified of; you even gambled your own life when you jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. You've been lucky, Sherlock: two of those people got out alive, and you barely knew the other two. But this…" John sighed, "this was too close. You play by the rules, and when the enemy plays by the rules too, you always win. But they're not always going to play by the rules; men like Moriarty and Parsons and all the other bloody psychopaths out there don't care to play by the rules. I know you know that, but you just can't keep gambling like this.

"You did what Anna wanted you to do, and she was okay with that gamble. I wasn't; Lestrade certainly wasn't. But _you_ were; _you_ were too willing to play that game, and Anna only encouraged you. These games, Sherlock…these games kill people."

John paused, allowing his point to sink in. But he shook his head. "Sorry; I'm dwelling on things. You did everything you could to find her, so that's it. I mean, her last words were…"

John's mind trembled as he recalled the last thing she said: _Do me a favor and stay_.

"…her last words were 'it's all over.' And she's right; it's done. There is nothing left for us to do. I can't change that; I just have to accept what happened. She's dead. We're not going to get her back."

Sherlock stared at him silently with a doubtful glance, but John rebuked it. "Seriously, Sherlock; don't worry about me. I'm fine."

John was about to leave; all he wanted was a shower and a good nap. Just as he got to the flat door, he paused. There was one last unanswered question that had to be reconciled.

"Just one more thing," John called out.

"What?" Sherlock replied smoothly.

"When Mycroft was over at our flat that one night, he saw _A Little White Bird _andhe said something to me. Sherlock…you always wanted to be a pirate because of Peter Pan?"

* * *

The next morning, John woke up nice and early. After the first decent night of sleep he had gotten in the past month, he felt absolutely glorious. At least, until he saw the picture still sitting on his dresser.

There she was, contained in a wallet-sized photo. It looked like it had been taken fairly recently; probably just after she had graduated the Police Academy. She donned her blue coat and her heeled boots, her backpack slung over her thin shoulder gracefully. Whoever took the picture had caught her off guard from behind; they probably called her name, making her turn her head over her shoulder to be seen. Strands of her long dark hair had been flown out around her, framing her pale face. One hand was held up to her lips, which were slightly parted into what could be a rare smile. And in her dark eyes was the defiance that had defined her for so long.

John took the photo in his hand; he had forgotten that he had taken it from the cork board on the mantle and slipped it into his pocket. When he had taken his keys out, it probably ended up on the dresser too. His fingers played with the surface, the smooth texture of the picture against his fingertips. He flipped it over and found the name scrawled on the back:

_Anna Huntington, age 18. _

It made his heart sink. She was gone, already buried in the dirt. They would never see each other again.

One thing offered him solace: he had been there for her. When Sherlock faked his own suicide, the worst part was knowing he couldn't do anything for his friend; he was on the roof one moment, dead on the concrete the next. But he was there for Anna; he held onto her hand as she slipped away. She was scared, but she didn't die alone. He had stayed; he had stayed to the very end, to the moment her heart stopped. At least he could offer her that.

"I'm here," he closed his eyes and whispered. "I'm here."

With that, he opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and slipped the photo in. There it would remain, buried within his old military uniform. It was only fitting; he would do exactly what he had told Anna to do: _let it go_.

"JOHN!" Sherlock hollered from the sitting room. There was a giant crashing noise followed by the thud of a falling figure, and John rushed down the stairs to meet the commotion.

"What are you screaming about so early?"

Sherlock threw John's coat up in the air before he grabbed his own. "Lestrade texted me; triple homicide in Brixton."

"Let me guess: we're going. Right now."

"If you're up to it. Not getting old, are you Dr. Watson?"

"No, Sherlock; I'm not the one who fell trying to leap over the sofa."

Sherlock glanced at the black sofa, his eyes narrowing distrustfully as he tightened the dark scarf around his neck.

"It was in my way."

John chuckled as Sherlock flew down the stairs of 221 Baker Street and rushed out the door for a cab. Only a triple homicide could get the man so excited so early in the morning; a promising start to the day, as Sherlock would put it. With that, John slipped his coat around his shoulders and raced out to the street, where Sherlock had already hopped into the cab and was typing something madly on his phone, no doubt a message to Lestrade. As he slid in and slammed the door shut, John began pressing for details on the crime scene and the bodies; three "brilliantly-bloody" bodies.

A promising start indeed.

_Fin~_

* * *

**[A/N: Thank you so much for reading this story! Your support for the last 4 months has been incredible; I wouldn't have finished it otherwise.**

**Please feel free to let me know everything you thought about this story: what you liked, what you didn't like, your favorite parts. I'd love to hear them.**

**Last thing: I have started writing something under the name "A Glitch in the Mind Palace." If you're interested, take a look into that; the first chapter is up today.**

**Again, thank you so much! ~Of Sun and Rain]**


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